Can't Find My Way Home
by tbazzsnow
Summary: Former school roommates Baz and Simon run into each other when their flight is cancelled due to inclement weather. They team up to get home for the holiday but luck is not on their side. A Carry On Travel AU with planes, trains, automobiles, snowstorms, road trip mishaps, and mutual pining. Expect oblivious boys, bickering and banter, gratuitous use of tropes, romantic interludes.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**Simon **

I should've stayed in California with Agatha.

No, probably not a good idea. Not with Penny and Micah leaving too.

I could've stayed with Penny, in Chicago. Would've been a bit awkward. This is the first Christmas she's spending with Micah's family and all. I didn't want to barge in on that.

It's looking like I might end up stranded in New York City, on my own, for Christmas.

They've delayed my flight to London twice already today.

Not like I won't be by myself even if I do get home. I've not got anyone to spend the holiday with, not with Penny and Agatha here in America.

I could've stayed. I just didn't want to do that to them.

Agatha's made a life for herself here. She's got her friends and her new boyfriend. Dr. and Mrs. Wellbelove flew in the day before yesterday to spend Christmas with her. It would have simply been too awkward for me to stay, what with them meeting Tyler for the first time.

Penny offered. To let me stay.

Micah did too. Told me this kind of storm usually shuts down the East Coast.

But it's their first Christmas together. They don't need to be dragging me along to Micah's family home.

He's got a big family, Micah does. Like Penny. Three or four sisters, I think. One brother? I can't remember. And cousins. Penny says it'll be a whole scene.

I'll be fine on my own. I want to get home, to my flat.

The flight status just changed on the monitor again. Now it's blank—not even a time estimate or '_delayed_' anymore.

And then the announcement I've been dreading comes overhead. Flight's cancelled.

Fuck.

It's chaos at the counter now. I'm leaned up against this pillar, right close so I can see all the people queueing up. There are no seats left anywhere at this gate. Haven't been for hours.

That's how I ended up sitting on the floor.

Close enough to hear all the frustrated travelers arguing with the clerks.

Close enough to hear that voice.

The one I'd know anywhere.

_Baz_.

**Baz**

I fix my gaze on the ticket clerk in front of me. "There must be a flight going out tonight."

"No, sir. Storm's shut down all flights."

"I need to get to London."

"You and everyone else."

This is unacceptable. I need to get home. "You don't understand. I need to get on a plane to London. Tonight. I need to be there by Christmas. Whatever the price for a change fee."

The clerk narrows his eyes at me. "Listen. I told you. No flights going out tonight. They're shutting it down. Now what's it going to be? Rebook or refund?"

"What?"

He waves my ticket at me. "Rebook you once flights are cleared or do you want a refund? I haven't got all day."

He damn well does have all day if there are no flights leaving this hellhole of an airport.

"I need to get to London as soon as possible."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Listen, mister. I'm telling you. No flights. Big storm. You want a rebooking voucher or a refund?"

"Are flights leaving Newark? Can you get me on a flight out from there?" I'm wracking my brain to think of options. This blasted storm is blanketing the entire northeast with snow.

I should have left earlier in the week. I knew I shouldn't have left it to the last minute. I'd been so sure I'd make it home in plenty of time.

Then this storm had come up out of nowhere. My co-workers had been nonchalant about it, inured to the vagaries of weather in the tri-state area. I assumed the airports here were better equipped at handling snow. Better than Heathrow, at any rate.

Obviously not these amounts of snow.

"They're all shut down. The whole East coast. There aren't any flights going out of anywhere. Period. Now for the last time—refund or rebook. You're holding up the line."

I step away from the counter moments later, a slip of paper in hand and no prospect of reaching London anytime soon.

I aggressively punch in a search for train schedules on my mobile. Perhaps I can go south. There should be less snow south of here, shouldn't there? I could book a flight out of somewhere down there.

But where? Philadelphia? Baltimore? Washington?

The weather map is grim. All those cities are under the same massive storm alert as we are. Trains don't seem to be running either.

What the hell is going on with this country? I thought they were supposed to be intrepid and blasé about weather deviations like this. Obviously the television shows have vastly exaggerated the hardiness of the populace. And of their transportation systems.

Fuck it all. My mobile battery is now well into the red zone. I scan the gate area for a place to charge it while I plan my next step. I need battery power if I'm going to be doing searches all night.

There. I can see charging ports on that pillar beyond the counter.

I stride over to it, pulling my charging cord out of my bag. There's a sudden movement to my left as I bend down to connect it. A pair of worn-down trainers come into view. "There's another port over there," I say, waving my hand at another free outlet. "I'm using this one."

It's only when I stand up that I come face to face with those familiar blue eyes. Bronze curls. Tawny, mole-dotted skin.

A face I would recognize anywhere.

The face I see in my dreams.

The face of the boy I've been hopelessly in love with since fifth year at Watford.

"Baz."

I blink at him and my mind is a blank. So, of course, I say exactly the wrong thing.

What I said to him countless times during the eight years we were roommates.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Snow?"

**Simon**

I don't even know why I stood up. Habit, I suppose. Even now, years later, I'm still on alert when I see Baz.

I've not seen him since the leavers ball, almost five years ago now. I knew he was in London. Penny ran into him about a year ago, at Foyles. Of course.

He's not changed a bit. Still as pale as ever, tall and posh and impossibly fit. Can't even be arsed to say a proper hello.

His hair's longer. That's different.

There was a moment, when our eyes first met just now, that something else flashed across his face. It's not often you can surprise Baz Pitch. He's always got that cool, indifferent expression.

Except then, for that split second. He looked . . . well, I don't know how to describe it.

"You on this flight too, then?" Great snakes, what a stupid thing to ask. Of course he is. Why else would he be at this gate? I tense up, waiting for that sneer of his, the perfect arch of his raised eyebrow.

It doesn't come.

Which surprises me.

"The one to London? Yes. Doesn't look like anyone's getting out of here tonight." He bends down to check the connection on his mobile.

I shove my hands in my pockets and glance over at the queue. "They rebook you, then? I suppose I should get in the queue."

Baz shakes his head. "They've no idea when flights will be cleared." He stands up and waves a slip of paper at me. "I took the refund. I'll find my own way out of this."

"What're you planning?"

He's always plotting something.

"I've got the refund. Just need to find a way south, to an airport that's not shut down by this fucking nightmare of a storm."

I frown. I've been watching the weather on my mobile. This storm is huge. It's covered the whole eastern part of the country. "Where're you going to find an open airport? This thing's massive."

I know that expression. A muscle in Baz's jaw twitches and I see his knuckles whiten as he grips his mobile.

"I'll find a way."

Honestly, if anyone could it would be Baz. He's an absolute prat, a complete wanker of a human being, but he's bloody brilliant. And determined. Even I have to admit that.

"Well, good to see you again, Baz. I'll be off." I tilt my head at the long queue. "May as well figure out what to do next."

**Baz**

It's probably been our most civil interaction in years. I'm at my wits end with my travel plans all bollocksed up but I can't find it in myself to snap at Snow. Not when the sight of him makes my chest feel tight. When I can't keep my eyes from hungrily taking in every detail of him.

He looks the same. Worn trainers, track bottoms, hoodie—just like always. His hair is longer, the curls disheveled and falling over his forehead in that familiar way. I want to reach out and push them from his face, sink my fingers into the mass of them. My eyes follow the trail of moles along his neck, dart up to the one on his cheek that I've longed to kiss for years now.

I want to keep him here, talking to me, letting me soak up the sight of him.

But he's already moving away, waving his hand as he steps to the back of the queue.

"Snow." His name wrenches out of me.

He stops, tilts his head and gives me a puzzled look. "Yeah?"

I clear my throat. "Are you rebooking or getting a refund?"

His brow furrows. "What?"

Classic Snow response. I roll my eyes and repeat myself.

He shrugs. "Dunno. I'll probably see if they can rebook me. I've got nowhere else to go." He looks around. "Don't fancy spending Christmas in an airport, mind you, but I suppose it could be worse."

I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know what I'm doing. I just know that I haven't seen him in years and he's still making my heart pound like it did when we lived together. I can't let him walk away. I'm surely making an arse of myself but the words are out of my mouth before I can summon the strength to keep them in.

"Get the refund."

"What?"

"Get the refund voucher. I'll find an airport that will get us out of this fucking country and back home in time for Christmas, Snow."

"You mean leave here? How? There's a bloody great blizzard out there, Baz. Snowmageddon or whatever they're calling it."

"Go get the refund. I'll figure things out while you're in the queue."

To my utter shock he shrugs, nods his head and makes his way to join the mass of people in front of the counter.

**Simon**

I don't think his hair is all that's different about him.

Baz has never directed that many words at me without an insult slipped in somewhere.

He's probably just preoccupied. The travel inconvenience has him off his game.

My eyes keep going back to him as I wait in the queue. He's leaning against the pillar, head down, furiously tapping at his mobile.

I like his hair this way. Falling down around his face in soft waves.

He always used to slick it back at school. It gave him such a severe, distant look. Went with his personality, I guess.

The only time he tied it up was when he was on the pitch.

Why am I thinking about Baz's hair?

I shake myself and take a step forward in the queue. It's slow and I'm bored. Everyone around me is complaining and arguing.

My eyes are drawn back to Baz. He's still hunched over, scowling at whatever is on his screen. I let my eyes roam over him.

He's still fit, the twat.

I don't think I've ever seen Baz in jeans before. They look expensive, tailored like they're made for him. He looks really good.

Fuck.

I can feel my face grow hot, even before I turn away from him to scan the waiting area, trying to find something to focus on that isn't Baz. I don't know why I'm being like this. I know I haven't seen him in a while but it's just Baz. It's not like he's one of my friends. Far from it.

I'd been so excited, that first day at Watford. I'd never lived anywhere so posh, never been around people like that.

I don't know why Watford gave out scholarships. I don't know how I managed to qualify for one. All I know is one day Headmaster Mage showed up at the care home, signed some papers and whisked me off to a place that could have come out of one of my fantasies.

He'd explained it all on the train. That I'd live at Watford, that he'd be my temporary guardian while I was there since he's the headmaster. He'd gone on about the clubs and classes and people I'd meet. It was like one of my dreams come to life but even better.

Until I met my roommate. Baz.

I'd introduced myself, stammering 'cause I was so nervous, put my sweaty hand out towards his. And he'd just glared at me.

I didn't know anything about him. Didn't know his mum had been the previous headmaster. Didn't know she'd been killed in a hit and run on her way to Watford a few years before. Didn't know Baz was in the car with her when she died.

I didn't know any of that.

I wanted to make a friend. That's what all the roommates in stories were—friends.

He'd glared at me and moved off, leaving me standing there with my hand still held out.

It didn't get much better after that. I couldn't do anything right. Not in class, not in the room, not on the pitch.

Baz even said I breathed too loud.

It was open hostility the first few years but by the end we'd gotten into a bit of a pattern. We'd stopped getting into scraps after third year.

I didn't want to get expelled—Watford was the only home I had. Being in the care homes for the summers was bad enough. I couldn't imagine being back in them full time.

I'd stay out of his way as much as possible—sit far from him in class, in the dining hall. I'd shower in the morning, he'd do it at night. I'd try to study in the library with Penny and he'd stay in the room.

Things were almost civil by the time we graduated. Almost.

If you call sharing a space with someone and barely speaking to them civil.

I'd learned all about his mum by then. And I'd learned Headmaster Mage had been the one to take her place. Figured that first day was likely harder for him than for me. Being stuck with some charity case of the headmaster's was the last thing he'd wanted to be saddled with.

I can understand that. I can understand how upsetting it was to go back to a place that meant so much to his mum.

I suppose it was easier to take it out on me than anyone else at first. I get that. But then I suppose we got into the habit of needling each other, sniping and snarking constantly. And it stuck. We didn't know how to be anything else.

At least I didn't know how.

I tried fifth year. Tried to bite back the comments, tried not to flare up when he would say things in that cool, posh voice of his.

I've a temper. Didn't manage holding it in too well. Baz has a way of going for the low blow, every time. It's maddening.

It didn't help at all seventh year, when Agatha broke up with me. I knew she liked Baz. Liked him more than me. They were a better match—everyone could see it. Both from wealthy, old families, both gorgeous and elegant, just made for each other.

Except it never happened. He'd spent years trying to break us up and then, when we finally did, he just seemed to stop caring. I've never understood that. I thought for certain he'd sweep Agatha off her feet and that'd be it.

I think Agatha was expecting that as well.

I'm finally getting closer to the counter. Three people left in front of me. I take a peek in Baz's direction again.

He's looking right at me. With that funny expression on his face. I can't place it, it's nothing like his usual sneer.

My face gets hot again and I turn my head.

But I can't get that image out of my mind.

He looked . . . he looked hungry? No, that's not it.

Longing? Is that it?

I'm sure I'm reading it wrong. He's probably just tired.

That doesn't explain why he's looking at me that way though.

**Baz**

The trains are as fucked as the airlines. I'm desperate enough to look at bus schedules, even if the thought of traveling by bus makes me shudder.

It's useless. Everything's shut down. Planes, trains, busses. I'm fucked. There's no way I'm getting home in time for Christmas. No way I'm going to be there for Mordelia's birthday.

And thanks to American internships and their brutal holiday leave policies I've got to be back here in another week. I'll be lucky if I get three full days at home and I'll be missing the most important ones. Fuck it all.

I hate it here. I hate this internship. I want nothing more than to move back to London. I know it's a reputable company. I know it will be a good addition to my resume.

They're planning on opening a London office in May. That's the whole reason I've put up with this misery in the first place. The hope that this internship will lead to a full-time job offer in London.

There's no guarantee of that though.

Some days I want to give my notice, walk out of there and never go back.

I've thought about it. Thought about not coming back next week. But I'm not one to give up. Not one to shirk my duty.

I'm a Pitch. I'll see it through.

I wonder why Snow is here. Probably visiting Bunce.

I ran into Bunce last spring, before she moved to Chicago. She and Snow were still sharing a flat then. It wasn't hard to get her talking about him.

I know he's taking this year off. I know he's working in a care home. I know he's planning on going to graduate school, in Social Work.

I hadn't realized how desperate I was to know how he was doing. I had assured myself I was over him. That I could listen to Bunce and not feel any emotion other than vague interest.

Seeing him now proves just how wrong I was. I can barely take my eyes off him.

I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know why I told him to take the refund. I don't know why I'm letting myself hope.

Nothing's going to be different. He's not going to be friends with me.

He's not going to realize I'm in love with him. That I've been in love with him for years.

There's no hope of him falling in love with me.

I'm not sure he even likes me, to be honest. I wouldn't, if I were him. I've been beastly since the first day we met.

I square my shoulders. I'm certainly not going to let on how I feel about him. I've kept it to myself for years. I can keep it under wraps a bit longer.

It would be so much easier if I hadn't just told him I'd find us a way home though.

I've booked us a rental car. Which is likely one of the stupidest ideas I've ever had. How we're going to manage driving through this blizzard is beyond me but it's the only option I've got left.

Miraculously I have managed to secure us a Range Rover. The rental rate was obscene, which is likely why it was still available.

But money is no object to me at the moment. I need to get home.

I'm an excellent driver. I'm familiar with the vehicle. It's a more manageable size than some of these American behemoths and I know it should handle well in snow. At least the kind of snow we get back home.

I've no idea how it will handle in this blizzard. But it's all I have so I am putting my faith and my energy into making this work.

It takes four hours to drive to Washington in good weather. Likely double in this muck. Planes are still flying out of there but I'm not sure how long that will last. They've got freezing rain at the moment but that could change rapidly into snow.

If Washington shuts down then my next option is Richmond.

I'm plotting this all out on my map. If we get to either of those places tonight we can fly out on tomorrow's flight. That would get us to London by Christmas Eve. Not ideal but it will do.

Better than Christmas day, but I'll even take a Christmas day arrival if I have to.

I save the flight data and maps on my mobile. I don't want to book a flight yet, not sure if Washington or Richmond will be my best option.

Snow is still in the queue. I let my eyes rest on him, drinking in the sight of him. I've not let myself think about him. Not since I saw Bunce. It's too hopeless to let myself dwell.

It hurts to think about him. To know he's been in London for all these years. To know that I can't simply call him up and ask him round to the pub. Because I've been such a wanker to him for so long.

Because he'd never say yes.

Because I don't even have his number.

He's filled out a bit. He'd always be so thin when he'd come back at the start of term. Painfully thin. Wan and anxious. And then he'd settle in somehow, the light coming back into his eyes.

I'd watch him shovel Cook Pritchard's food in at mealtimes. And then in a matter of weeks his color would be back to that golden glow, his face would lose its sharp angles, he'd be back to the Simon Snow I knew and loved.

He looks like that now. I suppose he must look like that all the time, since he's out on his own and doesn't have to go back in care every summer.

I don't know why Mage did that. Sent him back to those homes at end of term. Surely he could have stayed at Watford.

Mage was there. The caretaker was there. There were always some staff on hand to keep the place up during the summer. Some of the professors lived just off the grounds.

I'm sure the Wellbeloves would have taken him in.

Simon spoke about it once. Seventh year. I don't think he intended to reveal as much as he did. He'd always spent Christmas with Wellbelove's family and I asked him why he didn't go home with her in the summers too. They'd broken up by then so it was a bit cruel of me to ask. Which means I probably did it intentionally.

Christ, I am such a pillock sometimes. Most of the time.

He'd said then that Mage made him go to the homes in the summers. Said it would keep him closer to his roots, his origins. Make him a stronger man.

If I hadn't already hated Mage I think that would have made me do it. I can't imagine forcing Simon into that situation when he didn't need to be in it.

It was cruel.

But it was the next part that gutted me.

"I'm old enough to sign myself out now." He'd said it so softly I'd barely caught it.

"What?"

"I can sign myself out. If you're over sixteen you can leave. Be on your own."

"So why don't you? Certainly it's better being anywhere but there?"

He'd looked down at the floor and shrugged. Snow can carry on entire conversations using shrugs. It's maddening.

"Nowhere else to go. It's better than being on the street. Three meals a day and showers."

"But surely . . ." and then I'd stopped. Because I wasn't sure of anything all of a sudden. He had no family. He had no income. I could have let a small flat for the summer, paid for my expenses on my own. He didn't have that luxury.

"Surely you could stay with someone—Bunce, Wellbelove?"

He had shaken his head. "Too many people at Penny's. There's barely enough room for all of them. And Micah's visiting this summer."

He hadn't mentioned Wellbelove. I suppose that would have been awkward, spending the summer with your ex-girlfriend. I don't know why I had brought it up.

"You could . . ." I'd managed to stop myself in time. I couldn't believe I'd almost asked him to come home with me for the summer.

No, I couldn't do that. Couldn't have invited Mage's charity case home with me. What would my father have thought?

Snow wouldn't have come anyway. He'd have assumed it was some elaborate plot to humiliate him or make him wretched.

He's always thought the worst of me. With good reason, of course, but it still twinges.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Simon**

I put my refund slip in my wallet and make my way back to Baz.

I'm not sure why I listened to him. I'm not sure why I agreed to go with him.

Did I agree to go with him? I didn't actually say yes.

I didn't say no either.

Whatever he has planned is sure to be preferable to sitting alone in this airport all night.

"Right, then. I've got my refund. What now?" I stand in front of him, hands in my pockets.

"Did you check any luggage?"

I shake my head. "It's all in my bag. You?"

Baz grimaces. "The airlines have lost too many of my bags through the years. I never check luggage anymore." He hefts a sleek but sizeable leather satchel onto his shoulder. "Let's go." He turns and strides away.

"And where exactly are we going?" I'm trotting to keep up with him. Blast Baz and his long legs.

"I've got a car for us."

I make an abrupt stop. Why the fuck did I take the refund? "A car? Baz, are you mad? Have you looked at the map? It's a fucking nightmare out there. A bloody snow apocalypse."

He turns and gives me his signature look, eyebrow raised, all sharp edges and arrogance. It's comforting, somehow, to see it again.

Not that I've missed it, mind you. It drove me to distraction when he'd look at me like that at school, the tosser. Infuriated me. I'd never get off a good retort.

But it's the most familiar thing in this airport tonight. So I don't mind it, I guess.

"Do you take me for an idiot, Snow? Of course, I've looked at the weather. We'll be fine."

"Fine? They're closing down the whole airport, Baz. What do you think the roads look like if they have to close down the fucking airport?" I stand firm, cross my arms and glare at him. "I thought you'd have a better idea than driving in this shit."

Baz rolls his eyes, the twat. "Simon. Train service is interrupted as well. Driving is our only option. I've requisitioned a sturdy vehicle, I'm an exceptionally skilled driver, and if you don't start walking I'm bloody well leaving you here." He turns and heads off.

I do end up chasing after him but I blame it on being distracted by the fact that he called me Simon. He's never called me by my given name before.

We make our way to the rental car kiosk and Baz gets into an involved conversation with the desk clerk about routes.

It's obvious the clerk thinks he's mad. Baz is intimidating at the best of times and this is not the best of times so he's absolutely unnerving. The clerk is nervously nodding his head and making vague suggestions in a faint voice. He hands Baz a stack of maps, brochures and whatnot and then the keys. I get the distinct impression he'll be happy to see us go.

So we do. Baz sweeps away, all waving locks and glowering looks. I follow in his wake.

I can't help eyeing him as I trudge after him. I can't believe I've never seen him in jeans before. I'd remember if I had, I know I would. These jeans really suit him.

Fuck.

I chase after him and am greeted with a blast of arctic air as we step through the sliding glass doors that lead outside.

I don't have gloves. I don't have a scarf. I've been in California for the last week. I've got my leather jacket and my hoodie and that's it.

Fuck, it's cold.

I blink up at the sky. It's dark now. The snow is coming down so heavily, the flakes so large and fast. When I tilt my head up it almost looks like the jump to lightspeed in Star Wars. The whirling flakes are all that I can see.

"Come along, Snow."

I turn towards Baz and I'm transfixed. He's got that look again, that strange soft one I can't quite place. Snowflakes are caught in the tumble of his windblown hair and I can't take my eyes off him.

**Baz**

I've seen Snow like this before at school; cheeks flushed, snowflakes dusting his bronze curls, eyes lit up.

It makes my heart race.

I close my eyes to banish the sight of him and turn towards the waiting shuttle bus.

I can't let myself do this. I can't let myself think about him like that. It's hopeless. I know that.

He's so close.

But it's still feels like he's a million miles from me.

I adjust my bag and walk away.

**Simon**

I slip and slide in the snow as I follow Baz. The shuttle busses are huddled in a row not far away but it feels like forever walking into this wind, the blowing snow making me squint.

And Baz wants to drive in this.

There are only a few other people on the shuttle so I choose a seat across the aisle from Baz.

He's got his head down, looking at the paperwork the clerk gave him.

I'm staring at him again.

I know what he looks like. It's not as if his face is unfamiliar to me. I woke up seeing it every morning at Watford for eight years.

I don't know why the sight of him is so fascinating to me tonight. It must be because I haven't seen him in so long.

And because he reminds me of home, I suppose.

**Baz**

I'm going to avoid looking directly at him.

It will be easy enough once we get in the car. All my focus will be occupied with driving in this maelstrom.

I'll put the route on my mobile and he can navigate. That way I won't even be tempted to give him sidelong looks when I glance at the screen.

Although Snow is shit with directions.

That disaster of a camping trip at Watford taught me never to trust Snow with a map.

I won't be trusting Snow, I suppose, just Google Maps.

The cars are all snow-covered lumps when we finally reach the dark rental car lot. The attendant, muffled so that only his eyes are visible, waves his hand at us and calls out my name.

"It's this one. Good luck to you. Roads are bad I hear." He points to the vehicle next to him and then scurries off, leaving us to clear the snow-covered windshield and windows.

I'm freezing by the time I get in the car and start it. I turn the heat up to maximum, punch the defrosters on and look at the weather forecast on my mobile again.

The outlook is bleak. There's no end in sight for this snow and temperatures have dropped as the wind has kicked up.

Splendid.

There is one small positive in all of this: the Range Rover has a navigation system. I won't have to rely on my mobile or Snow.

The most direct route to Washington takes us past Philadelphia and Baltimore. I'll have to have Snow keep checking the status on those two airports as I drive.

If Baltimore is closed there's a good chance Washington will be as well.

Then I'll go to further south.

Charleston.

Orlando.

I searched every airport south of New York that offers direct flights to London while I was waiting for Snow.

Fuck it, I don't want to have to drive all the way to Florida.

**Simon**

Baz fusses with his mobile, then the navigation system in the car. I adjust my seat and settle back to watch him. He's got that determined look I know so well. Laser focused on the task at hand.

I know better than to distract him when he's like this.

Eventually he stops tapping at the screens and plugs his mobile into the port.

"Is your mobile charged?" He doesn't even turn his head to look at me when he asks.

"Yeah. Enough." I pull it out of my pocket. "Seventy-two."

"That'll do." He grips the wheel, eyes forward. "I'll need you to keep checking on the airports to see if flights are still going out. And to track the storm. Understood?"

"Yeah. I can do that."

"Don't waste your battery on any games, Snow. I need you paying attention. I might need you to book the tickets while I drive." Baz darts a look at me, eyebrow up. "You can handle that?"

He's such a prat. I growl back at him. "I can handle it."

I lean forward and punch the radio button.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting on the radio."

"Whatever for?"

I shrug. "Music. Weather. Road conditions. The typical things people put the radio on for."

Baz frowns. "I am not going to listen to your dreadful taste in music while I drive, Snow."

"Yeah, well too bad. This was your idea, dragging me along into this nightmare of a storm. I should get to pick the music."

"Driver's choice."

"Says who?"

"I say so. I'm the driver. We listen to my music. I'll inform you when you need to change stations. Now shut up and check the status at Philadelphia and Baltimore. I need to be able to hear the Nav."

I'm going to regret this trip, I just know it.

**Baz**

The roads are shit. Not just the ones near the airport but even the main thoroughfares and motorways. There are cars on the road but not many. I've yet to see a snowplow.

Every few miles I see cars pulled over on the side of the road. I've counted four accidents and at least three cars in ditches since we left the city proper.

My hands have a death grip on the steering wheel. The wind has picked up. Between the heavy snow coming down and the gusts swirling the earlier snowfall, visibility is atrocious.

The defrosters are on, the wipers are going and I've turned the heat up in the car.

Snow is predictably irritated.

I know how easily he gets hot. I honestly don't care.

All I care about is somehow making it to an open airport and getting the fuck out of this country.

He used to drive me mad by opening the window in our room every sodding night when we lived together. I had to tolerate it.

So he can tolerate this.

Except he's not.

He keeps opening his window and closing it. Opening it and closing it.

It's insufferable. I'm trying to focus on keeping us on the road, even at this snail's pace I'm forced to maintain.

"Could you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?"

I grit my teeth. "The fucking window antics, Snow. Christ. As if it's wasn't bloody intolerable when we shared a room, it's fucking excruciating now. I'm trying to keep the damn windows clear so I can see. Stop with the up and down, would you?"

"It's hot."

"I don't give a fuck if it's hot, Snow. I'm trying to see so I can drive and I'm trying to keep us on the road. All you're managing to do is annoy the bloody hell out of me."

"Then why'd you ask me to come with you, if I'm so bloody annoying?"

I don't answer. There is nothing I can say that isn't incriminating or horribly embarrassing. So I just shut up.

We drive on in silence, broken only by the GPS intermittently intoning that we still have too many fucking miles until we reach our destination and the music coming from the radio.

This was a terrible idea.

**Simon**

It's so fucking hot in the car. I've shrugged off my jacket but I'm still sweating. I know Baz is trying to keep the windows clear but the heat's making me dizzy. I didn't even think to buy a water at the airport. My throat's dry and scratchy.

And Baz won't let me even crack the window anymore.

We drive in silence. I've taken to counting the stranded vehicles we pass. So far, it's been nine cars in the ditch and at least four collisions. One lorry on its side and I've seen two off the road.

Baz is driving slowly, hands gripping the wheel, mouth set in a grim line.

The airport in Philadelphia is closed. So is the one in Baltimore. The last time Baz said anything, was when I told him that. He swore, slammed his hand on the steering wheel and hasn't said a word since.

That was close to an hour ago. We've been on the road for four hours and we just passed Philadelphia. The snow's coming down even harder now. It's difficult to see much, what with all the blowing snow and blizzard conditions.

The radio announcer called it a white-out and said motorists were strongly encouraged to get off the road.

Baz changed the station.

I thought we'd stop in Philadelphia. Call it a night since both airports have grounded all flights. But he's still pressing on. There's no way Washington will stay open if Baltimore's closed already. They're closer together than I'd realized. If one's closed the other's sure to follow.

"What're you thinking, Baz? Do we keep going?"

He doesn't answer me.

The station he chose is playing classical music. I'm not usually a fan but it's soothing. I like it. It makes me think of Baz's violin.

He never practiced it in front of me. I know he played in the room when I wasn't there but he always stopped as soon as I walked in.

By fifth year I knew his habits well enough that I'd pause before opening the door to our room. If I heard him playing I'd usually stand there and listen for a bit.

Unless I really had to piss. Then I'd just walk in.

I liked listening to him play. I'd never tell him that, the prat. I liked the sound of it. I don't know which composers or any of that. I'm not familiar with that kind of music.

You don't get much of an education in classical music in a care home. You don't get much of an education period.

Sometimes I'd hear a melody I thought I recognized. Couldn't ask Baz what it was though. He'd know I was listening at the door, if I did that.

I don't know how many times I stood there, ear pressed against the wood, soaking in the sound of Baz's violin.

"Do you still play?" The words are out of my mouth before I can catch myself.

"What?"

Now that it's out there I keep going. "The violin. Do you still play?"

I'm watching him, because he's far more interesting to look at than the road. His face softens for a moment before he answers. "Not as much as I'd like."

"That's too bad."

"Why do you say that?" He sounds genuinely curious.

"I remember how much you liked to play. And you were good at it." Damn. Didn't mean to let that slip.

His brow furrows. "How do you know I was any good, Snow? It's not like you ever heard me play."

"I'm sure you were. You fucking excelled at everything. Why not the violin too?" It comes out harsher than I intend.

Perhaps back at Watford I would have meant to be harsh about it. He _was_ infuriatingly good at everything. First in our class in every subject. Fucking ruthless on the pitch. Fit as hell. It drove me mad.

I wasn't very good at anything. Not classwork, not football, not at being a boyfriend. I was ok at being Penny's friend but that's not something you can put on a resume now, is it?

I think the only thing I excelled at was annoying Baz. Also not resume material.

I expect him to snap back at me. But he doesn't. He just clears his throat.

He looks tired. I'm sure this kind of driving is taking its toll on him. It's not like I could even offer to take over for a bit.

I don't drive. Never learned how.

I check the weather on my mobile. There's no break to be seen with this storm.

"Baz. Let's find a place and stop over for the night. You've been driving for hours. There aren't going to be any more flights tonight. We may as well find a hotel and try again in the morning." I lean towards him. "You look knackered."

"I want to get to Washington. If it's functioning tomorrow we can get a flight from there."

I fuss with my mobile. "Baz, that's hours away. It's taken us twice the time it should to get here. It can't be any better the further we go, especially with Baltimore closed down. It could be four more hours, if not longer." I check the time. "It's almost ten o'clock."

"Let's get a bit farther."

He drives on. There are even fewer cars now. For miles at a time we are the only vehicle in sight, other than the ones that have run off the road. I haven't seen a snow plow in hours.

Eventually the decision to stop for the night is made for us. I hear the siren before I see the flashing lights in the rearview mirror.

"Fuck." Baz's face is oddly pale against the strobing red and blue lighting of the police car behind us.

"At least you know you weren't speeding." He's not made eye contact with me once since we left New York but now he gives me a withering look.

The state trooper looks exhausted as he peers in the driver's side window at us. "You boys need to get off the road. The storm's only going to get worse and there's a pile-up a few miles down from here. Cars in ditches all the way to Wilmington."

I can sense Baz's frustration. He sighs and looks up at the trooper. "We just need to get a little farther tonight, before we stop."

But the trooper shakes his head. "There's not that much farther you're going to get tonight. I'm telling you it's bad up ahead. They're going to start closing roads, the drifts are getting so deep. The plows can't keep up, we can't keep up and there aren't enough tow trucks to get all these cars cleared." He leans down. "You need to hole up somewhere for the night."

He must see something in Baz's face because his expression softens. "Listen. You don't sound like you're from around here. You need a place to stay for the night—my sister has a bed and breakfast down the road. I think she's still got a room or two left. Follow me. I'll take you there myself."

Baz's shoulders slump and I know what that means.

He's done fighting.

We follow Sgt. Petty to an exit a mile or two ahead. The smaller roads are even worse than the motorway, snow-covered and with drifts making only one lane passable at times.

We finally stop at a house near the edge of this small town. It's lit up so I can see it's old. Or at least it looks like it should be old. There's a sign as we drive up to it-looks like a nanny goat frolicking in a field. The sign reads "The GOAT B&B". What an odd name for an inn.

It's cheery though, with strings of bright Christmas lights twinkling from the eaves. There are two stories and what looks like a rounded turret that juts up even higher, with fancy edging. The snow-covered trees and lights make it look like a picture postcard.

Baz and I get out of the car and follow our guide to the front door. It opens as soon as he knocks and a smiling older blonde woman ushers us in. "Come in, come in, get out of the cold."

The inside of the house is as warm and cheery as the outside. There's a fire blazing and a huge Christmas tree takes up one whole section of the front room.

This must be Sgt. Petty's sister. She looks just like him—same blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw.

"You staying a bit, Nicky?" she asks him.

"No, Ebb. Got to get back on the road. I wanted to make sure these two found the place alright. You've got room for them, you said."

Ebb beams at us. "I've got one room left tonight and I think it'll suit you two just fine." She pats her brother's arm briefly. "Stay safe out there tonight, Nicky."

Baz steps forward and holds out his hand to him. "Thank you. For your assistance tonight. Greatly appreciated."

I'm grateful too. Who knows how long Baz would have kept driving if he hadn't stopped us? I nod at Sgt. Petty. "Thanks."

Ebb makes a show of bustling us into the house once her brother is gone. We're in the kitchen with mugs of tea in hand moments later. "When did you two last eat?" She stands with her hands on her hips, looking from me to Baz.

I can't quite remember. Midday maybe for me.

"Never mind answering that. Sit. I'll whip something up for you."

It's not long before a plate of scones is set in front of us, followed shortly by a steaming dish of scrambled eggs and another of bacon. It smells heavenly.

I'm famished and it seems Baz is too. I can't remember ever seeing him eat this heartily.

When our plates are scraped clean Ebb stands and puts them in the sink. "You have your bags? Good. Now let me show you to your room."

We follow her up a flight of steps and then another narrower flight of stairs. "You're lucky I had this last room free. I think you'll like it. It's the only one with a private bath so you can have a good soak or a shower to warm up before you turn in."

Ebb opens the door and I follow Baz into the rounded room. We're in the turret I saw before. There's a fireplace, with a fire already going, two padded armchairs in front of it. Beyond that is a small alcove with an armoire.

It's as cosy as the rest of the house.

"Bedroom's upstairs and the bathroom is there too," Ebb says as she waves a hand in the direction of some narrow, openwork circular stairs. "Breakfast is served at nine. If you want to get on the road earlier than that just let me know. I'm up early so I'm sure to be about. I'll whip up something for you to eat before you go."

She grins at us and then disappears, the door closing behind her.

I drop into one of the armchairs. "This is nice."

Baz is standing by the door still, that odd expression on his face again. It's the first time he's looked directly at me since the airport. "You all right, Baz?"

He nods. "I'm fine."

He looks worn-out. I'm sure he is, even if he won't come out and admit it.

"I think a hot shower and a bit of time by this fireplace is the plan for me." I stand up and grab my bag again. "Let's see how things look upstairs. You can shower first."

There's a smile on his face now. "Just like old times."

I smile too. He always showered at night. I took mornings. "Yeah, just like old times." I look around the room again. "It's a lot like our room at Mummer's."

Baz snorts. "We certainly didn't have this much chintz, Snow."

I like this.

I like talking this way, neither one of us being prickly. It's nice.

"Honestly, Snow, you can shower first. I want to sit and soak up the warmth a bit."

Baz drops down in the chair closest to the fire and leans his head back, eyes closed. The fire casts a warm glow over his features and highlights the long line of his neck.

I drop my bag again and sink into the chair I just vacated. Baz opens his eyes and turns his head to me. "Thought you said you wanted a shower."

I shrug. "I don't mind doing this for a bit first."

He closes his eyes but he's smiling again.

I gaze at the fire for a bit, stealing glances at Baz every so often.

There's a softness to him I don't recall noticing before. Or maybe time has smoothed the edges from my memory. I don't know.

I like to look at him. I don't know where that realization came from but it's true. I don't think I ever noticed him this way, back at school. Not the way I'm noticing him now.

The way he crosses his legs just so at the ankle. The way his posh jumper clings to him. The way his hair falls in a wave over his forehead.

Nope. I've thought about his hair before.

Christ, I've thought about all these things before.

**Baz**

I could fall asleep here, sitting in front of the fire. It's warm, the chair is soft and I've got Simon Snow by my side. It's bloody perfect.

But I can't sleep all night in a chair. I've got to get some real rest, if I'm going to be driving in this shit again in the morning.

I exhale and open my eyes.

To find Snow staring at me intently. He looks away immediately, face turned to the fire but I can see the flush creeping up his cheeks as he does.

Odd.

I feel a little flutter in my chest at the sight of him. Christ, he's gorgeous. The firelight sets off his tawny skin and burnishes his hair to a golden hue. The constellation of moles on his skin are so familiar to me.

He shakes himself and stands up. "Um, maybe we should think about calling it a night, Baz. You're planning an early morning? Get back on the road?"

"As early as we can. I'd like to get to Washington in time to catch one of the afternoon or evening flights. We can only hope they've cleared the roads by morning."

Snow pulls out his mobile and taps at the screen. He frowns and his brow creases. "Baz."

"Yes, Snow?"

"You're not going to like this."

"What?"

"I checked on the airports again. All the ones we passed are still closed but now Washington is too." He lifts his eyes to meet mine. "I'm sorry, Baz."

I blink at him stupidly for a moment before responding. "It can't be helped. I expected this might happen. I have to hold on to the hope that by morning the storm will have tapered off and the night crews will have cleared the snow enough to allow flights to take off."

"Anything more to do tonight, then?"

A sigh escapes me. I hate to show weakness in front of Snow but I can't help it. This is disheartening news, even if it's not unexpected. "No. There's no use getting myself worked up tonight. Things may look better by morning. I'll try to book us flights then, at whatever nearby airport is functioning. Even if we have to go back instead of forward."

He's staring at me again, head tilted to the side. I'm familiar with this expression. It's Snow's appraising look. He's about to make some sort of decision.

"Why are you so set on this, Baz? We could have stayed in New York, waited it out, maybe caught a flight from there tomorrow. I know you want to get home by Christmas but why the urgency of this?" He waves an arm, gesturing at the room around us.

I sit up, hands resting on my knees. I _have_ been uncharacteristically impatient today. More impetuous than usual.

"I want to get home." It's the truth.

"I get that. But enough to put yourself through this, to save a few hours?"

It's a valid question and I don't have an answer other than I want to be home. I want to be with my father, with Fiona. I want to see my siblings. Daphne.

I need to be around family.

This time of year is hard for me. It's been hard since Mother died.

It's been eighteen years.

I've never missed a Christmas with my family. Other than the year my mother died and my father seemed to forget that Christmas even existed. I thought I'd done something terrible, to make Father Christmas stay away.

Fiona had saved the day, arriving at the house with food, sweets and a giant Paddington Bear for me.

Father has never forgiven himself for forgetting that year. He's tried to make up for it every year since.

It means the world to me to be home at Christmas. To help Daphne wrap the presents and haul them up from the cellar after the little ones have gone to bed. To sit by the fire and share a drink with my father. To watch my siblings' faces shine with joy on Christmas morning. I want that.

I need that. It doesn't take away the hole left by Mother's absence but it gives me some solace.

Simon is still staring at me. He takes a few steps, so he's standing in front of me.

"Baz?"

I look up into those impossible blue eyes. Such an ordinary blue. A blue I could drown in.

"I miss my family." My words come out in a whisper.

Simon crouches down, so his eyes are level with mine. "I'm sure you do."

"It's . . . it's been eighteen years since Mother . . ." I pause and that's when his hand reaches out to grasp mine. It's warm and his grip is strong. It fits over my hand as if it's meant to be there.

"I'm sorry, Baz." He gives my hand a squeeze. "Sorry I've been an arse tonight. I'll do whatever I can to make sure we get where we need to go, to get you on a plane to London tomorrow."

I tighten my fingers around his. "Get us on a plane, you mean."

He shrugs. "It's no matter. It's just me this Christmas. Doesn't really matter where I am, does it?"

I feel an overwhelming wave of shame come over me.

How do I always forget this fact about Snow? How do I forget he's an orphan, that while I'm here whinging about wanting to be with my family, I should be grateful that I have one, when he's got nothing.

Nothing to go home to but an empty flat and a solitary holiday.

"No, it's alright. I'm the one who's been an arse. I'm feeling sorry for myself. It's been months since I've seen them and I'm homesick, that's all. I'm whinging. Don't mind me, Simon."

He grins at me suddenly. "You did it again."

"Did what?" I'm thoroughly confused by the shift in mood and conversation.

"Called me Simon. It's the second time you've done that tonight."

"I have not."

"You did it at the airport and you did it again just now."

He looks absolutely triumphant, the muppet. "You are mistaken, Snow."

"Am not, you twat." He's still grinning. He's so close, I could kiss him now, if I leaned in.

I pull my hand out of his instead and stand up, causing him to shift his weight to maintain his balance.

I make a show of yawning and grab my satchel. "I think I'm ready for a shower. You first or shall I go ahead, Snow?"

He's standing now too, looking a bit bewildered.

My heart is racing and my face is heating up but that could be my proximity to the fireplace. At least that's my excuse.

"Nah. You go ahead, Baz. I'll come up and take a look around, if that's all right, get my things ready while you shower."

"Of course."

I make my way up the narrow, circular staircase and step into the room at the top of the turret. It's smaller than the one downstairs, part of the space taken up by the ensuite that's to my left.

Simon comes up the steps behind me and walks right into me. I'm rooted to the spot in disbelief.

There is only one bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

**Simon**

Baz abruptly stops at the top of the stairs and I walk right into him. I'm knocked off balance and have to clutch at the railing to steady myself.

It wouldn't be the first time he sent me down a flight of stairs. Two weeks into third year Baz infuriated me so much I punched him. Right in the nose. It's always been a little crooked since then.

He punched me right back and I fell down the stairs. I know he didn't actually mean to do that. Send me down the stairs, I mean.

He definitely meant to punch me.

He still hasn't moved. I elbow him in the side and he steps away from me awkwardly. He's usually far more graceful than this.

"There's a problem." His tone is flat.

"What?"

"There's a problem. I'll have to speak with Ebb."

"What?"

The soft glow he had downstairs is gone. He's pale and he won't meet my eyes. He looks nothing like he did just a moment ago, by the fire.

He's already turning to push past me down the stairs.

"Baz, stop. What the fuck are you going on about? It's a nice room." I cast a look about and then turn to him again. "What's the problem?"

Baz points across the room. "That's the problem."

There's a huge bed piled high with pillows. It looks so comfortable. I'm about to say fuck the shower 'til morning and call it a night simply on account of how inviting it looks.

And then it hits me.

There's only one bed.

I look around again but there isn't one hiding in a corner. There's no sofa or chaise.

There's just the one bed.

It's all right. It's fine. We can handle this like adults.

"It's fine, Baz."

"Fine? What do you mean fine, Snow?" Baz pushes past me and starts down the spiral stair. "I'm going to find Ebb. She must have another room free."

I follow him. "Baz. She said it was her last room. You heard her say that. We both did."

"Doesn't matter."

He's reached the bottom and is heading for the door when I grab his sleeve to stop him. "Baz, stop."

He halts but doesn't turn to face me. "What do you want, Snow?"

"Listen. I'm sure Ebb's in bed already. She said this was the last room. We'll figure something out ourselves. It's only one night."

"'Figure something out?'" He does turn to face me now. "Do you see a second bed, Snow? A cot? A chaise? Because I certainly don't."

"I'm just trying to help."

"Well, you're not." He goes to pull his sleeve away but I shift my grip and grab onto his wrist.

"Baz. Shut up for a minute and listen to me."

He twists his wrist but I've got a firm hold.

"Fine." And there's the Baz sneer I remember so well.

"Listen. There're two chairs down here. You take the bed. I'll sleep down here. I can sit in one and put my feet on the other. I've slept in worse places."

Those chairs are softer than some of the beds I had in care.

"No, I can't let you do that. I dragged you along on this misadventure. You shouldn't have to sleep in a chair." He scans the room. "I'll do it. I'll sleep down here."

I'm a bit thrown. I'd expected him to take me up on it. Noble, self-sacrificing Baz is someone completely unfamiliar to me.

"Rubbish. You're the one who needs rest. I can sleep in the car tomorrow. You're the driver. You get the bed."

I realize I'm still holding onto his wrist. I don't let go.

We argue back and forth for a few moments more and then I have a thought.

"Hold up. I've got an idea."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Yes?"

"Let me run upstairs for a minute." I drop my hold on his wrist and move to the stairs, turning to glare at him before I go up. "Don't move."

He just rolls his eyes, the wanker.

I scurry up the steps to make sure I'm right in my assumption.

I am.

The bed is as huge as I recall. It must be a king. I've never slept on a king-sized bed but this thing is bigger than any I've seen before.

I trot back down the stairs. Baz is standing right where I left him, eyebrows lowered and a frown on his face, arms crossed over his chest.

"It's fine," I announce.

"What's fine?"

"The bed."

"I never intimated there was anything wrong with the bed itself, Snow. Just the singularity of it."

"No, that's fine too."

"You're not making any sense."

"No, you see, the bed's huge, Baz. Way too big for one person. We can both sleep in it and hardly even know the other person's there." I nod at him. "Problem solved. We both get a comfortable night's rest and we can stop bloody arguing about it."

He's gone pale again.

"For fuck's sake, Baz, you shared a room with me for eight years. That bed is almost as big as our entire room. It's for one night. It's not like either of us snore."

It's not that big a deal. I admit it startled me at first too but it shouldn't be a problem. I've shared a bed with Penny when I've stayed at her house. They've not got spare rooms or extra beds, there're so many of them crammed in that house, so I've always had to double up with her.

And her bed is literally half the size of the one upstairs.

He's staring at me now.

"It's a bed. You're tired. I'm tired. It's miles wide. It'll be like being back at Watford, sleeping in the same room again." I tug on his sleeve. "I'm fine with it, really. Come on. Stop being such a twat."

**Baz**

He doesn't know what he's asking. The thought of sharing a bed with him, even in this most platonic of ways, has me in a complete and utter panic.

But it's tempting too.

I'm weak. I'm tired. I've not got the reserve to argue with him any longer.

**Simon**

I know I've won the argument when I see his shoulders slump.

He follows me up the stairs, about as eagerly as if he were mounting the gallows.

I'm a bit insulted, actually. I don't snore. I don't thrash about, not unless I'm having a nightmare. Just ask Penny.

"Left, then, for you?" That was his side of the room at school. I think it might put him at ease if he has that side here, seeing as he's being so skittish about this.

"Yes, thanks."

"You go ahead and shower first, Baz. I'll go after you."

"No, I want to text Father. You go ahead."

He's still on his mobile when I come out of the bathroom, toweling my hair off. "All yours."

I climb into the bed. It's heavenly soft. The pillows have just the right amount of cushion and the comforter is warm and heavy. I might get too hot later but for now it feels perfect.

I can't reach the far edge, not even with my arm outstretched. I position myself right close to my edge, to give Baz as much room as possible.

He takes forever in the shower. Typical. That's not changed. My eyes keep closing but I force myself to stay awake. Knowing him he'll try to sneak off downstairs and sleep on those chairs out of sheer stubbornness.

Not on my watch.

He finally emerges, hair falling in damp waves framing his face. It's such a familiar sight that it makes my chest feel tight.

He pauses a few steps from the bed and I think he's going to go downstairs after all. He's not meeting my eyes.

I groan.

"Come on, Baz. Don't take all night about it. Get in the bloody bed and turn off the light. It's late. I'm not going to bite you."

**Baz**

It's completely unnerving to see my dreams and wanking fantasies come to life.

Snow is in the bed.

His eyes are half-lidded and his hair is tousled, stray curls flopping down onto his forehead in that way I love. I want to sink my hands in the bronze mess of them.

It's like looking straight into the sun. I have to look away or I'll say something stupid.

"Just get in."

And somehow, at his command, I'm moving forward and pulling the comforter back. I sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from Snow and try to pull myself together. _Breathe_, _Pitch_, _just breathe._

I can do this. I shared a fucking room with him for eight years. How difficult can this be?

I lie down, facing away from Snow, as close to the edge as I can possibly manage without falling off the bed.

That would be all I need right now, to make even more of a fool of myself in front of Snow than I already have.

"Light." Snow's voice comes from behind me.

I switch off the light and lie there, rigid as a board. I can feel the mattress dip as he shifts on his side of the bed.

"Hey, Baz."

"Yes, Snow."

"It'll be all right."

I don't say anything.

"You'll get home. It'll be all right."

I'm a mess of nerves and agitation and hormones but his voice soothes me.

"I hope you're right, Simon."

"Ha! You did it again." The mattress shifts behind me once more.

I turn to look, both dreading and hoping that he's moved closer.

He hasn't but in the dim light I can see he's got his head propped up on his arm and he's looking in my direction.

"Did what?"

"Called me Simon again. I told you earlier."

I sigh.

"I like it, Baz."

I've rolled over to face him before I can stop myself. He's a dim outline in the dark.

"What?"

"You calling me Simon. I like that better than when you call me Snow."

I have no coherent response to that statement. A few moments pass and then he speaks again.

"Good night, Baz."

I swallow and close my eyes. I feel as if I am balancing on the edge of an abyss. I can take one step back to relative safety or one step forward into the unknown.

"Good night, Simon."

Into the unknown it is, then.

But somehow it's not as unnerving as I anticipated.

It feels right.

I stare at the shape of him, an arm's reach away from me. The sound of Simon's breathing fills my ears. My eyes start to close from weariness and the familiar comfort of him nearby.

I hadn't realized how much I missed this.

I'm exhausted from the drive, the day, the sheer effort of not reacting to the proximity of him.

But I can't fall asleep.

The bed is as comfortable as it looks but I'm unable to settle down.

I'm afraid to move. Afraid I'll fall asleep and do something remarkably reckless. Like shift closer to him.

Or heaven forbid inadvertently reach for him.

I should turn away. Face the wall instead of Simon. But I can't bring myself to do it.

I've been in this position so many times. All those years, all those nights at Watford. Watching Simon sleep in the bed across from me.

It was the only time I could let my guard down. Drop the pretense that I despised him. Gaze at him for as long as I wanted.

I've memorized the shape of his face, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he's curled up on his side like this. The location of every visible mole and freckle.

There's a sliver of light coming through the window behind me, where the curtains are slightly parted. It's just enough to see his face.

And I drink in the sight.

I don't know how much time passes but I can't let myself keep doing this. I need to sleep, even if only for a few hours.

I gingerly roll over and slide off the bed slowly, so as not to wake him.

I'm so tired I almost feel drunk from it. I pace for a bit, trying to get myself to relax but find myself drawn to the window.

I push the curtain aside and take in the sight that greets me.

The sky is dark but a solitary street light illuminates the night. I can see the snow still falling, thick flakes swirling in the wind. All the edges are blunted, softened, the world outside blanketed in a thick covering of white.

"Hey."

I let the curtain drop and turn to see Simon sitting up in the bed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'alright. What're you doing up?"

It takes me a moment to answer. There are so many reasons and I can't confess to any of them.

"I couldn't sleep."

Simon's sitting on the edge of the bed now, yawning and stretching. His t-shirt rides up and I can't look away from the sight.

"Sorry. Wasn't snoring, was I?"

I shake my head then clear my throat to find my voice again. "No, no. Nothing like that."

Simon's at my side before I realize, his shoulder brushing against mine as he shifts the curtain to peer out the window. "Still coming down then?"

I can't move away. I can feel the heat radiating from him.

He deliberately bumps me. "Hey. Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Thinking. Fretting. We'll sort it in the morning." He keeps talking when I don't respond. "We'll figure it out, Baz. No use wasting a good bed on worrying. You need to rest." He elbows me in the side. "Come on. Back to bed with you."

I don't know why he's being so kind to me. I don't deserve it. I've been a grumpy arsehole the entire time.

I don't want him to stop.

He elbows me again. "Bed."

I don't trust myself to speak so I make my way to my side of the bed and crawl in, pulling the covers up to my chin. Simon tugs the curtains closed so the room is enveloped in darkness.

I feel the mattress dip. "G'night, Baz. Get some sleep. Can't have you driving in this muck if you're tired." He gives a little snort. "And you can be an utter pillock when you're tired." He snorts again.

"I can be an utter pillock even when I'm not tired."

The sound of his laughter washes over me. "You'll get no argument from me on that. Now, for Christ's sake, shut up and go to sleep."

And somehow I do.

**Simon**

I'm an early riser. Always have been. It used to drive Baz mental, especially on weekends. Said I'd clatter around the room just to irritate him.

He wasn't wrong.

I stay in bed this time. I don't want to wake him. Doubt he got much sleep last night.

I wonder how long he was standing at the window, fretting about the weather. It's not like we have control over any of it. It's nothing but a waiting game at this point.

But Baz isn't good with situations like this. He's a control freak, even if he won't admit it.

This must be wearing on him, the utter unpredictability of it all.

I can tell he's still sleeping by the pattern of his breathing. Sharing a room with someone for eight years, even if you can't stand each other, still gives you a fair amount of insight into their habits and personal characteristics.

He's a neat freak for one. His side of the room was always clean and orderly, books set on the desk just so, clothing folded neatly on the shelf, shoes lined up by the closet, his toiletries always tucked away under the sink.

Even Penny said slovenly was an understated way to describe my side of the room.

Baz likes to sleep in. Probably because he's a night owl. He used to shout about the open window but I'd fuss right back at him about the nightstand light. He'd stay up late reading in bed. I finally got used to falling asleep with the bloody light on.

He's very particular about his clothes. I don't think anyone else bothered to press their shirts or get the crease just right on their uniform trousers.

Only Baz.

I roll over onto my side slowly, trying not to disturb him. There's light coming from outside now so I can see him more clearly.

He's lying on his side, a wave of hair concealing half his face, covers tucked right under his chin.

He looks soft like this.

I used to watch him sometimes, when I would get up early. Must've been out of curiosity—to see what his face looked like when it wasn't sneering at me.

He's all high cheekbones and that long patrician nose. Full lips. A determined chin. The shining fall of his dark hair.

His eyes are closed right now but I think they're the most striking thing about him. I guess you'd call them grey.

But most times they look darker, like the sea in winter. Sometimes, mainly when he's distracted and not being a complete wanker, you can catch glints of blue or green in them.

And then there are the times his eyes shine a clear silver. It's rare to spy that.

But I have. Not often, mind you. But I've managed.

They looked like that last night. For a moment.

I can feel my face get hot and I shift onto my back. Wouldn't do for Baz to wake up and find me staring at him like a barmy git.

I stare at the ceiling instead.

Until the unmistakable scent of bacon hits me. I'm out of bed and getting dressed in an instant.

I hear a groan from the bed behind me.

"What time is it?"

"It's almost eight."

He's sitting up immediately. "Eight o'clock? Why the fuck didn't you wake me up? We need to get on the road."

It's my turn to groan. "Not without breakfast we're not."

We bicker all the way down the stairs.

We find Ebb in the kitchen. "Good morning to you boys. You get some rest? Hope the wind didn't keep you up. It rattles the windows up there a fair bit."

Hadn't noticed it myself. Maybe that's what woke Baz up.

She chivvies us into the dining room and before long huge platters of eggs, bacon, sausage, scones, and potatoes are set in front of us. It's all heavenly. I put slabs of butter on the hot scones and take seconds of everything.

Baz is sitting across from me with an expression somewhere between horrified and incredulous.

"What?"

He rolls his eyes. "You are a barbarian."

"It's good food. Be a shame to waste it."

"Ugh, Simon."

"What?"

"For starters, don't talk with your mouth full. And kindly remember we aren't the only customers at this inn. I'm sure the food is meant for everyone, not just us."

Oh. Fuck. I'd forgotten that. Can't be helped I suppose.

Ebb's laugh surprises us both. She's leaning against the doorway, grinning at us. "Don't you worry about that. No one else is up yet and there's plenty of food to go around. I know how you youngsters eat. Fill up your plates. I've another batch ready to go." She laughs once more and then heads back into the kitchen.

I'm savoring the last crumbs of my scone when the front door opens and a blast of cold air hits us. It's Sgt. Petty.

He stomps his feet on the foyer rug, shaking the snow off his boots. He gives me a nod. "Good morning to you both."

He's seated at the table moments later, taking helpings nearly as generous as mine. I give Baz a meaningful look but he just shakes his head at me.

"How are the roads looking?" Baz asks.

It takes a moment for Sgt. Petty to answer, since Baz caught him right as he took a big bite of eggs.

"Not good. We got more snow overnight and it shifted over to freezing rain a few hours ago. Think today is going to be worse than yesterday." He pours himself some juice before continuing. "Plows can't do much when it ices over like this."

My eyes are on Baz instantly. He's not going to take this well, I'm sure of it. His jaw is set and I can see a muscle clench in his cheek. No, this isn't good at all.

But he surprises me. He nods his head slowly and presses his lips into a thin line before he speaks again. "Any chance of us making any headway towards Washington?"

Sgt. Petty shakes his head. "I'd advise against it. The snow's not cleared off the roads yet and now there'll be a layer of ice right over it. Wind picked up overnight too. Treacherous driving for anyone, let alone if you're not used to it. The word is flights are grounded from New York all the way down to Atlanta. The whole east coast is shut down. This is a storm for the books, I tell you."

The defiant look on Baz's face fades at his words.

I'm about to say something when the lights flicker on and off. They do it two more times. I hear a humming sound coming from outside and then the lights come back on.

Ebb pokes her head out of the kitchen. "Your best idea, Nicky, getting that generator."

"Told you it would come in handy sometime."

I glance at Baz and our eyes meet. I shrug. His forehead is creased and his eyes are that dark, storm-tossed grey.

I want to reach my hand across the table and smooth away the crease. What a useless thought. We'd be back to punching each other if I tried something like that.

Baz is standing now. "Please excuse me." He picks up his plate and storms into the kitchen. I grab my plate too, even though there's a fair bit of scrambled egg still on it and a lonely rasher of bacon.

I stare at it longingly for a moment but then square my shoulders. This is more important.

He's already sweeping out of the kitchen when I get there and I'm about to follow him when I stop myself.

I'm all action when I'm frustrated. Heading out for a run, lifting weights, going a few rounds with a punching bag.

That's not Baz though. If I learned anything from our years of verbal sparring and physical altercations it's that he needs time to stew on things. He's a thinker. A planner. He retreats into himself and you disturb him at your own peril.

This is one of those times. I'll let him be. He's not going to leave without me. I'm sure of that, more sure than I am of anything else right now.

I'm still holding my plate. I turn to find Ebb leaning against the sink, arms crossed over her chest, regarding me thoughtfully.

"I'll take that." She reaches a hand out for my plate. "You get enough to eat, Simon?"

"Definitely. It was great. Especially the scones."

"Ah. Those are a house specialty. Glad you like them."

I stand there awkwardly for a moment. I'm not going to follow Baz upstairs but I'm not sure if I should stay here either.

Ebb senses my indecision. "Pull up a chair. I'll make you a cup of tea."

I'm right back where we were last night, seated at the kitchen table, mug of hot tea in my hands.

Ebb's cooking up another batch of bacon and scrambled eggs. "So, any progress on trying to get home for the holiday?"

I shake my head. "Not that I know of. Sgt. Petty said the airports are shut down again." I curl my hands around the warm mug. "I think it's thrown Baz a bit. He was really hoping we'd find a flight today."

"I'm sure it's frustrating not being able to get home. But at least you've got each other. How long have you been together?"

"Since we met up in New York."

"That's nice. You've been in the States long?"

"Two weeks."

She gives me an odd look over her shoulder. "Just two weeks? Did you know each other back home then?"

"What? Me and Baz? Yeah, we were roommates at school."

"That explains it then." Her smile is so wide her eyes crinkle at the corners. "I love stories like that."

I'm not sure what she means. She stirs the eggs and keeps talking.

"It's sweet you've been a couple that long. That's a solid foundation to your relationship, when you've lived together like that and know each other so well."

My face heats up and my heart thumps in my chest. A couple? Me and Baz? Is that what she thinks?

Fuck. That's probably why she gave us that room. She thinks Baz and I . . . that me and Baz . . .

Bloody hell.

It's so damn hot in here and I can tell my face is on fire.

Ebb laughs. "Ah. Young love. You're still bashful about it, are you?"

I've got to set her straight. Christ. Baz will have kittens if he gets wind of this.

Fuck.

I rub the back of my neck. "Uh . . . it's not like that really."

She quirks an eyebrow at me.

"Um . . . me and Baz. We're not . . . we're not like that."

What the fuck are we? Are we friends?

Acquaintances?

Fuck it. Acquaintances sounds stupid. Friends it is then. "We're just friends. Friends. Just friends." I'm repeating myself, as if that would somehow make it true.

Ebb's face falls. "Oh, I'm sorry. Shouldn't assume, I suppose. You two seemed so good together I thought you were a couple."

I run a hand through my hair. I don't want to make her feel uncomfortable. She's been so kind. "No, ah . . . it's fine. Don't worry about it. It's . . . ah . . ." And now I'm stammering and making a complete hash of this.

Her expression shifts to regret. "Oh. Oh, dear. I'm so sorry, Simon. I didn't realize." She turns the burners off and comes over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. "I didn't realize he doesn't know how you feel."

What? Oh God. Somehow, I've made it even worse. Now she thinks I'm pining for Baz. Fuck it all.

I've got to get out of here before I spontaneously combust. I stand up, nearly knocking my chair over in my haste, and Ebb's hand falls to her side. "No, no really, it's all right. It's nothing. It's not what you think." Bollocks. "I'll . . . I'll just see where Baz's gotten to, I think."

I'm bolting out the kitchen when I hear her quiet voice behind me. "You might think about letting him know, Simon. He might surprise you."

Somehow, I make it out to the front porch. It's frigid and the wind is whipping my hair into my eyes. It feels good on my flaming cheeks though.

What the fuck? What the actual fuck was that?

I rake my hands through my hair. Sgt. Petty was right about the freezing rain. It's pelting me with what feel like shards of ice.

I don't care. It's cooling me off.

There is no way I can face Baz right now, after that.

Whatever would give her that idea?

We're just two blokes stranded by the storm.

A chill washes over me that has nothing to do with the freezing rain.

Two blokes who were practically finishing each other's sentences last night, there in that same kitchen with her.

Two blokes who shared a single room last night with no protest.

Shared a single bed.

I groan and lean against the doorframe.

It's not like that, with me and Baz. It's not like that at all.

The memory of me gripping his wrist last night comes back to me and I flush again.

I held his hand, by the fire.

And watched him sleep this morning, like some creeper.

Fuck.

All the things I thought about last night—the way he looks in jeans, the way he holds himself, the color of his eyes, the fall of his hair.

Fuck.

I fancy Baz Pitch.

What a fucking disaster.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**Baz**

I couldn't sit there for one more minute.

I'm pacing back and forth in our tower room. I'm expecting Simon to come in at any moment. I'm not sure if I'm grateful he hasn't or desperately wishing he would.

I should probably be grateful he hasn't. I'd be sure to snap at him and hate myself even more than I already do at the moment.

I've checked online. It's as Sgt. Petty said. The flights are all canceled—from New York to Atlanta—for today as well.

Fuck it all.

With the cataclysmic storm paralyzing this entire part of the country it will take a bloody miracle for me to get home for Christmas Day.

Or even Boxing Day. Mordelia's birthday.

I haven't texted her since the storm hit. I don't know what to say. I told her I'd be home for Christmas, just like that infernal song that's been on continuous repeat on the radio for bloody weeks on end now.

'_If only in my dreams,'_ like fucking sad Bing Crosby sang.

I hate that song.

I hate quite a lot at the moment, this fucking storm and my travel planning abilities currently occupying the top spots on my list.

It's no use. My pacing is only agitating me more. I think about calling my father but I can't let myself do it. I know what hearing his voice will do to me right now. Or Mordelia's.

I've got to hold it together. Come up with a plan.

I'm good at that. Making plans. Not these bloody plans. I've made a right hash of this entire trip.

I pull out my mobile and start searching airline websites.

Flights for tomorrow are still listed—from Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia. I'm tempted to book flights from all three, on the off chance one of those airports clears by then.

But that might be a bit much, even for me.

In the end it doesn't make a bloody bit of difference because there simply aren't tickets to be had.

British Airways is booked solid. Economy to First Class. All three airports.

And so it goes. Same for United. And American. And Virgin bloody Atlantic.

Fuck.

Delta has one seat left from Philadelphia. I don't even consider it. Simon and I are a package deal. I've not dragged him here with me to be separated from him now.

_Or ever_, a voice whispers in my head but I stubbornly reject the thought. It's pointless to let myself indulge my fantasies. I know how he feels about me.

Running into Simon may be the only redeeming feature of this entire situation but I can't allow myself to dwell on that.

After what feels like endless searching I finally find two First Class tickets on an Icelandair flight departing from Washington tomorrow.

I click through to purchase them. I'm not worried about paying for Simon. I know he'll pay me back. He's never had much money but he's an absolute stickler for paying his debts. Always has been. It's a point of pride with him.

It's not like I'm going to let him pay for the upgrade. That's on me.

The price for these tickets is surprisingly reasonable considering the First-Class designation. Odd.

The reason becomes clear when I click through to seat selection. These aren't British Airways style First Class seats. They're essentially glorified Economy. Not single-seat pods but regular seats, two to a side, and wider than the basic offerings.

I'm not complaining. There are two seats together. It's better than I could have dreamed. It will let me be near him for a few more hours, even if it's simply sharing an armrest.

Booking session over, I collapse into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. It's all ashes, the fire having burned out overnight. It's quite chilly in the room. I've half a mind to throw a log in the grate and start a blaze but I should probably get myself downstairs to let Simon know I've found us tickets, for whatever that's worth.

If the airport is even functional tomorrow.

I don't move though. Now that I've got a moment to myself I find I need the solitude. To pull myself together.

It's heady, being in Simon's company again. I'd convinced myself I was over him, that it was just a youthful infatuation, a school-boy crush.

It didn't take more than a minute in his presence to realize that was bollocks. I'm as besotted as ever.

More, in fact.

It's harder to act detached, to keep up my disinterested demeanor, that bland mask of indifference and arrogance I had cultivated so carefully at Watford, when all I want to do is be near him, bask in the sight of him, have him hold my hand like he did last night.

I'm hopeless. Utterly pathetic.

I'd give anything to go back. To start over.

I don't know how long I stare at the ashes in front of me, thinking back on every cruel insult, cold glare, or insensitive comment I've made to him over the years.

I sit up and lean forward, raking my hands through my hair in frustration.

Eventually the chill of the room gets to me. I wonder if that brief power outage shorted the heating system. I'll have to ask Ebb. It will make for an unpleasant night if the room gets any colder.

An unbidden image of cuddling with Simon in front of a roaring fire takes over my thoughts. If only that were a possibility.

There's no going back, I think to myself, as I make my way downstairs.

But maybe there's a way forward.

Fate gave me Simon as a roommate. Now Fate has unexpectedly brought him back into my life. Maybe there is such a thing as a second chance.

I'd be an absolute knobhead if I let myself fuck it up again.

**Simon **

The cold finally drives me inside. I dawdle in the foyer for a few minutes but the other guests have taken over the dining room and it's awkward to stand here and stare at them. It's not like I'm going to take a seat and have a second breakfast.

It's tempting but my stomach is too churned up from my conversation with Ebb.

I could go back to the room but I'm not quite prepared to come face to face with Baz, what with this realization I've just made.

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to face him again without blurting it out or going down in a blaze of mortification.

Fuck.

The people eating are beginning to stare at me.

Even if she's completely upended my world, Ebb is still a kind person. I'll go help her with the washing up. It'll keep me from running into Baz and perhaps give me chance to sort myself.

I desperately need sorting.

She's at the stove again when I enter the kitchen.

"Need some help, Ebb?"

"Ah, you're back then, Simon." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry about earlier. Nicky says it's one of my failings. I read too much into things and don't know when to stop talking." She wrinkles her nose at me. "I suppose that's two failings. I'm sure he's got a list of them for me."

"No, it's alright. I mean, I understand why you might have thought that. But it's not what you think, I want to make that clear."

"Understood."

"You need a hand then? I can do the washing up?"

Ebb grins at me. Her whole face lights up. "That'd be great, Simon. Thank you. I'd rather not use the dishwasher, to save generator power. You'll be such a help."

Ebb goes back to cooking and I lose myself in the repetitive mundanity of washing up.

But it doesn't manage to distract me from thinking about Baz.

It makes a kind of sense, now that I think about it. Penny used to complain that I was obsessed with Baz. That I used to talk about him constantly. Seventh year she even put a limit on how many times I could mention his name in a conversation.

I'd argue it was because he was such a fucking wanker and as my best friend she should be an understanding audience for my litany of grievances. Not to mention she complained about Trixie just as much.

Maybe not as much. But certainly as vehemently.

But that doesn't explain why I used to track him with my eyes. No matter where we were.

How I always knew where to find Baz.

Or why I nearly went mental eighth year when he didn't show up for the first month of school. You'd think someone could have bothered to let me know he'd been hurt playing tennis and had surgery.

Or how I could recognize the scent of his posh shampoo if he'd been down a hallway before me, or what made me pause outside his room to listen to him play his violin.

How I still know the exact way Baz's wet hair frames his face when he comes out of the shower.

Why the softness in his voice when he says my name now makes me shiver.

I am so fucked.

How am I going to share a room with him tonight, _a bed_ _with him tonight_, when I want nothing more than to sink my hands into the silken mass of his hair and see the silver of his eyes gazing into mine?

I put the last dish in the rack and dry my hands on the nearest dishtowel.

Ebb's hand taps my forearm. "Thank you, Simon. No need to worry about drying them or putting them away. I'll be pulling them out for lunch anyway."

I nod. "Right."

I cast about for a topic of conversation and notice the hum I had heard at breakfast. "You said something about a generator earlier, Ebb?"

"Yeah. Power's out all over town. The ice storm must have downed a line somewhere. We'll be alright, never you worry. I had that generator put in a few years ago, thanks to Nicky's nagging me. It does the job. Might find the house a bit cold as the day goes on. I need the power for the kitchen and freezer and lights. That leaves me with less for the heating, if I want it to last."

"How cold do you expect it to get?" I remember how Baz used to complain about the open window. He gets cold more easily than anyone I know. "Baz isn't much used to the cold."

"Shouldn't be too bad. I've got plenty of blankets to spare and your room has a fireplace, which should help. Heat rises so the bedroom should be warm enough, if you keep the fire going through the night. I'll make sure to put some of the extra blankets up there for you." Her face creases in thought suddenly and her grip on my forearm tightens. "You'll be alright up there another night, Simon? I had a different assumption when I put you boys there together . . ."

No help for it. I know she's not got another room and after what I said to Baz last night about it not being a big deal to share a bed I can't quite change my mind without arousing some suspicion on his part.

"No, it's fine, Ebb. Just . . . uh . . . let's just keep this conversation to ourselves? I don't want Baz to have to worry about that too."

"Worry about what?" Baz says, walking into the kitchen.

Fuck. How much did he hear?

"Uh, erm . . ."

Ebb saves the day. "I was telling Simon it might get a bit chilly upstairs tonight, with the power out and us relying on the generator. I've got plenty of blankets and firewood to keep your room comfortable." She smiles at him and bumps my shoulder. "He didn't want to worry you."

Baz darts his eyes in my direction and there's that softness in his gaze again. I'd call it fond, if I didn't know better.

"I know you hate the cold." I mumble. "Always complaining about the damn window."

If anything, that makes him look even softer. "Thank you, Simon."

I can't even describe what it feels like to hear him call me that instead of Snow. I didn't think he'd take me seriously, last night, when I told him I like it better. I thought he'd sneer or take the piss about it.

But he's not called me Snow since I mentioned it.

Baz and I are smiling at each other and I can't think of anything to say. It's going to get awkward quickly if I don't do something.

Thank the stars for Ebb. I don't know what kind of fool I'd make of myself if it weren't for her. She jumps right in again. "Simon's been a dear to help me here in the kitchen. The dishwasher takes up more than its fair share of power."

"You have enough to get through?" Baz asks, eyebrows coming together in concern.

"Oh, we'll be fine. Not the first time and won't be the last." She grins at him. "I'm sure you boys have things to sort out about your plans. I'll go fetch the extra blankets for your room and make sure you've enough firewood to last the night."

And with that Ebb leaves the kitchen.

Which means I'm alone. With Baz.

Baz leans against the doorframe and arches one eyebrow. "I've been making some plans."

"You're good at that."

Both eyebrows go up. "I'm glad you have such faith in me. I'm not so confident. Anything could happen with this blasted weather."

It's a bit surreal again, having such a civil conversation with Baz. I don't trust my voice so I just nod.

"I found tickets to London. For tomorrow."

This gets my attention. "I've got to do that myself, don't I? With my refund voucher?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't want to risk losing them. They aren't ideal." His face colors a bit. It's the oddest thing, seeing Baz blush.

I like it.

"What's the issue?"

"Everything was booked. All I could find were two seats on Icelandair. It's not a direct flight."

"But my voucher is for British." I'm a bit nervous now. Redeeming a refund voucher for a flight is one thing but I'm not in a position to pay for an entirely new flight.

I've got money. Enough to cover my usual monthly expenses. The care home internship doesn't pay much but I'd saved enough for this trip and tucked a bit away for an emergency.

I suppose this is an emergency.

I've not thought this through, have I? There's the room here, the rental car, this flight Baz has booked.

I should have stayed at the airport in New York. I can't afford much more of this. I'd not been thinking of the cost, when I'd agreed to go with him.

I just couldn't seem to say no once he'd asked.

Baz's words break into my spiraling thoughts. "It's fine. I took care of your ticket."

That doesn't help.

"I'll pay you back, of course. For the ticket." I swallow and keep going. "And the rental car. And the room." It'll be a pretty big dent in my savings but I don't like the idea of owing Baz money. "As soon as . . . as soon as we get back." I swallow again. "If it's alright to wait that long?"

He's giving me the oddest look.

**Baz**

I knew he'd start blustering about the money. I don't want him to worry. I know he's good for it and honestly, I'm the one who dragged him on this road trip. I'd never intended for him to foot any of the bill for the car or accommodations. Or the flight upgrade.

"Simon. It's fine, truly. I didn't want to lose the ticket. You'll get the refund from British when you get back. You can pay me then. And I'll not hear one word about you paying for the car or the room." I take a step closer to him. "I practically demanded you accompany me on this disaster of a road trip. There is no way I'll accept money from you for any of this. I'll take no argument on that."

"But . . . but . . ."

I frown. "Not a word, Simon. I'd be paying for all of it if I'd been alone. I won't hear any more on the subject. We'll sort the ticket issue when we get home. For now, let's hope the flight I booked actually leaves tomorrow."

I'm going to get an argument from him. I can tell by the way his jaw is jutting forward. I know this look.

**Simon**

A part of me is relieved to hear him say that but I also don't think it's fair. It's not like he kidnapped me and whisked me away against my will.

I'm here because I want to be.

"It's not like I'm here unwillingly, Baz. I should pay my fair share."

He rolls his eyes. "I told you I'd be paying for this all, whether you were here or not. It's been much more pleasant for me, to have your company, but that certainly doesn't put any obligation on you. I invited you. If anything, you're my guest. No more arguments, Simon. Let it be."

Did Baz say my company was pleasant?

I blink at him for a moment, unsure how to process that. "I'm paying you back for the ticket, as soon as we get home." I've said that already but my mind's a blank.

"I know that. It never crossed my mind to doubt that you would. The rest isn't important, Simon. I'm grateful to have you with me."

There's that softness again. In his voice and in his eyes. He's saying things in Baz's voice that I'd never imagined I'd hear Baz say. He's looking at me in a way I've never seen before.

Ebb's words come back to me. He is surprising me.

I don't know what it means.

**Baz**

Simon eventually stops arguing about the money. I'm sure it'll come up again, once we get home. But for now, he's letting it rest.

We're in Ebb's front room, seated in front of a roaring fire. I'd finally managed to drag him out of the kitchen.

It's a cosy room, lined with bookshelves, overstuffed chairs and long, low sofas. There are piles of board games and puzzles. Ebb brought in a platter of biscuits a short while ago.

It's also full of all the other people who are staying here. There aren't many but still more than enough for me.

We've made their acquaintance, thanks to their proximity in this room. Americans are so forthright about themselves. It's quite unsettling.

Simon is on a first name basis with most of them now and has uncovered such depths of back story on each of them that it's making my head spin.

I'd finally retreated to this corner. There is only so much conversation with strangers that I can take under the best of circumstances.

Simon eventually made his way back to me, a plate of biscuits in hand. He's polished them all off.

I managed to eat one.

He's here and we're bickering and it reminds me so much of how we used to be, except it's got none of the bitterness.

"I've never been to Iceland."

"It's not like we're going to see any of it. I think we've only got an hour or two at the airport there."

"It still counts as another country I've been to, Baz."

"Layovers don't count."

"Do to me."

"How can they count if all you see is the airport and a lavatory? You don't get any sense of the culture that way."

Simon frowns. "You get plenty sense of a place from lavatories."

I don't want to think about that.

Midday comes and goes and Ebb feeds us all again. Simon volunteers to help with the washing up and I find myself drying the dishes as he washes them.

It's mindless work but it lets me be near him and indulge myself.

It's inconsequential conversation but it makes me think that perhaps, in these new circumstances, that possibly we can find a way to be friends.

I'd like that.

I'd like that a lot.

**Simon**

I'd offered to help Ebb again but I hadn't expected Baz to join me.

It's oddly domestic and I can't say I object to it.

The rest of the afternoon passes slowly. I unwisely convince Baz to play chess and as expected he trounces me handily. We end up playing three games and he annihilates me each time.

You'd think I'd be more frustrated about losing but I like watching him as he thinks through his moves. He's seated across from me so it's natural for me to face him. And study him. It's probably why I'm losing so badly. I should be contemplating the board, not Baz.

Baz is far more interesting.

Ebb feeds us again at dinnertime and I swear I'll not fit in my jeans if we stay one more day here. I can't remember the last time I've eaten so well.

I can sense Baz has had his fill of people.

He's a brilliant conversationalist and can talk to anyone but I've realized it wears on him. He far preferred hanging about in our room than loitering in the common areas at school. The first years I assumed it was because he thought he was better than everyone else.

Or wanted to irritate me by always being around.

But that's not it.

People just wear him out.

Penny's that way too. She's got a few friends that I swear she'd die for but outside of that small circle she simply can't be bothered. "You have too many friends, Simon," she'd say. "You can't invest yourself in that many people. It's exhausting."

"Ready to go up to the room, Baz? Call it a night?" It's early yet but I can tell he's done with small talk.

"Sounds good to me." There's relief in his eyes and also a glint of something else. I can't place it. Probably just relief. I'm too eager to read more into every little thing he does tonight.

I grab a puzzle from the stack on the nearby table, in case we need something to pass the time. Knowing Baz, he's got a book stashed in that bag of his.

That's fine. I can entertain myself with the puzzle if need be.

Our sitting room is freezing. Blast it. Ebb told me to start the fire before we wanted to come up for the night and I'd completely forgotten about it.

Baz gets the fire blazing in no time but it's going to take hours for these rooms to heat up.

"I'll find the blankets Ebb brought, shall I?"

"Good thought. This feels like a bloody icebox. I'll come up with you. I need another layer."

The room upstairs is even colder. I don't know how we're going to sleep up here if it doesn't warm up. I don't think even the stack of blankets Ebb left us is going to do much.

We're both back by the fireplace in moments, huddled on the floor, as close to the heat as we can get. I've got a blanket over my shoulders and Baz has another tightly wrapped around his.

I'm leaning against the armchair behind me, watching the flickering light play over Baz's face. He's bathed in the golden glow and he's close enough to touch.

**Baz**

It's bloody cold in here.

I'm as close to the fire as I can get, closer to it than Simon is. He's leaning against one of the armchairs but I've tucked myself right next to the fireplace, curled up so the heat reaches me and turned enough that I can still see him.

He looks golden in this light—his hair, his skin, the light reflecting in his eyes.

He's beautiful.

His hair's a mess, curls springing up and flopping onto his forehead. The blanket hides the rest of him, except for his legs which are stretched out mere inches away from me.

He has a hole in one sock.

In my fantasies I'd tell him I was still too cold. And he'd tell me to come sit next to him. I'd lean into his warmth and let him chase the chill away.

In my reality I lean against the cold stone of the fireplace and try to tuck as much of myself under the blanket as I can. The fire is warming my face and hands but isn't doing much for the rest of me.

**Simon**

I think about going upstairs and getting another blanket for Baz. He's pressed up to the fireplace, blanket wrapped around him, just his face and hands out. He's curled up into a ball but I can see he's shivering.

I'm about to stand up when I get a better idea. I'm not sure I'd be daring enough to suggest it under any other circumstances.

But I feel reckless at the moment.

"Baz."

He turns to look at me. "Yes?"

"Come here."

"What?"

"Come here. You're freezing. If we share the blankets it'll be like we each have two."

He stares at me, not moving, eyes wide and dark.

I'm an idiot. Of course, he's not moving. He doesn't want to be further away from the fire. I don't know what I was thinking to suggest that.

But a moment later he's at my side, seated shoulder to shoulder with me. Baz won't meet my eyes but he lets me drape my blanket over him too. He pulls his knees up and places his blanket over our legs, shifting closer to me as he does.

"It might be warmer this way." He's so close but I still have to dip my head to hear him, his words are said so quietly. The familiar scent of him, cedar and bergamot, overwhelms me.

His face is so near. I could reach out and tuck that strand of hair behind his ear. I could . . .

It's awkward with our shoulders pressed together, bumping and jostling. We'd have more blanket cover if I put my arm around him and pulled him closer.

I stop thinking about it and just do it.

He tucks himself into my side, finding his position as if he's always had a place there.

Maybe he has.

He doesn't speak again but when his head drops onto my shoulder I feel like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

I've got Baz Pitch in my arms.

It feels good.

It feels right.

**Baz**

My fantasies have become a reality. I am curled up in front of a fire, in the arms of Simon Snow.

Christ, I'm living a charmed life.

**Simon**

I could kiss him. I could dip down and kiss the top of his head. Could breathe in the scent of his hair. See if it's as soft as it looks. Sink my fingers into it as I lift his face to mine.

**Baz**

I could kiss him. I could tilt my head up and look into those impossibly blue eyes and kiss him. Trace my lips up his neck, follow that line of moles up his jaw.

Kiss that mole on his cheek that I love.

I could do it.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

**Simon**

I need to stop thinking about kissing him. I'd not even expected this, when we came upstairs. I might have pictured it in my head, might have fantasized about it a bit when I brought the blankets down.

I thought he'd curl up in a chair with his book. That I'd sprawl out of the floor with the puzzle.

This is far better.

I don't want to do anything to unsettle him.

I've got to stop thinking about kissing him.

It's difficult when he's so close.

I want him close.

So, of course, I decide to start talking.

"You all right, Baz? Warm enough?"

I'm such an idiot.

His head comes off my shoulder and he straightens up, shifting slightly away from me. "Yes, yes. Much better. Sorry, didn't mean to crowd you there." He shakes his head and tries to shift away a bit more. "I'm fine now. It's warming up in here. "

It's not appreciably warmer. I know he's just saying that.

I tighten my arm around his shoulder. I should shut up but my mouth keeps forming words. "I didn't ask because I wanted you to move away."

That makes him turn to look at me. He's so close. I could lean forward and touch his lips with mine.

But I don't.

"Just stay, Baz. Stay with me here. Please." It comes out as a whisper.

Miraculously he does just that. He looks at me for a moment and then he shifts closer again, letting me pull him to me.

When he finally brings his head to rest on my shoulder again I let myself exhale the breath I'd been holding.

I do what I wanted to do before. I brush my lips on his hair and then rest my cheek on his head. His hair is as soft as I've imagined. Softer.

I've got him where I want him. Where he belongs.

Where I belong.

**Baz**

I think he kissed the top of my head. I may be delirious and just imagining it. I don't know. I wonder if Simon can feel how rapidly my heart is beating.

I feel drunk. Light-headed. The clean, sharp scent of Simon Snow is all around me.

He's all around me. I'm overwhelmed with his proximity. His arm is holding me close, my toes are tucked under his thigh, his head is resting on mine and I think I must be dreaming.

I don't want to wake up from this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**Simon**

I'd be happy to stay here on the floor all night, like this.

It isn't the most comfortable but I've slept in worse so I'll not complain. Baz has to drive again tomorrow though. I want him to get a good night's rest and I'm sure he won't manage that on this hard floor.

I should suggest we go upstairs but I don't.

I've no idea what time it is. My watch is on the arm that's curled around Baz at the moment and I'm not about to check it.

He's not moving either. I don't think he's asleep. I know what his breathing is like when he sleeps.

I should make him go upstairs.

The shrill ringtone of my mobile eventually breaks the silence and Baz scoots away from me in an instant. It's suddenly colder without him there.

I dig my mobile out of my pocket.

It's Penny.

"_Simon_!"

"Hey, Pen."

"_Are you home yet? You didn't call and I was worried. Micah said the whole east coast is shut down. Did your flight get out alright_?"

Shit.

I'd completely forgotten to call Penny. Slipped my mind, what with running into Baz and the storm and all.

"I'm fine. My flight got cancelled."

"_Where are you, Simon? Did they put you up in a hotel?"_

Baz has pulled his blanket off my legs and is standing up. I wave my arm at him, motioning him to sit back down. He shakes his head and points at my mobile.

Bloody git. It's not like this is a private conversation. It's Penny.

"Sit down," I hiss at him, covering the speaker. "You don't have to go. It's just Penny."

He blinks at me for a moment and then curls up under his blanket in the armchair across from me.

It feels too far away.

"_Who are you talking to?"_ Penny's voice comes through the speaker. _"Simon, where in the blazes are you?"_

"I'm fine. Don't fuss. The flight got cancelled and we've been trying to get to another airport to catch a flight but they're all shut down. Hoping to get a flight home tomorrow." I scoot across the floor until my back is against Baz's armchair. That's better.

"_Get to another airport where? In this weather? Did they bus you somewhere?"_ She's peppering me with questions. Penny's like that sometimes. Most times_. "Who's with you?"_

"We tried to get to Washington. I'm at an inn somewhere in . . ." I turn around to look at Baz questioningly. "Where are we?" I whisper.

He rolls his eyes at me but there's no sign of the disdain he usually infuses into that look. "Delaware."

"Delaware," I tell Penny.

"_Simon, who are you talking to?"_

"It's Baz."

"_Baz?"_

"Yeah, Baz. Baz Pitch."

Her voice is testy when she replies. _"I know who Baz is, Simon. What on earth are you doing with him?"_

"Ran into him at the airport."

"_And now you're in Delaware with him?"_

"Told you. We were trying to get to another open airport."

An exasperated huff comes through the line. _"Honestly, Simon. Baz thought it was a good idea to go driving in this weather? And you went along with it?"_

"It's a Range Rover." I hear a muffled snort from Baz.

Penny goes on for a bit. I just listen. It's best to not interrupt when she's in the middle of one of her lectures.

I close my eyes and lean my head back, bumping into something that's definitely not the chair. I think it's Baz's knee. I'm instantly shifting myself away but then I feel the cool touch of his fingers in my hair.

And I freeze.

"It's alright." It's barely a whisper but I tune out Penny's voice as I strain to hear Baz. "It's alright. I don't mind."

I tentatively rest my head back on his knee. There's a featherlight touch of fingers running through my hair again and I can't help but lean into it.

Penny's louder now. _"Simon. Simon, are you listening to me?"_

"Yes."

"_You didn't answer. I asked you a question."_

"Sorry, Pen." I shrug. "I'm tired, I guess."

Her voice instantly softens. _"Please be careful. And take care of yourself."_ She pauses and then adds _"Say hello to Baz for me."_

"I will."

_"And don't you dare forget to call me when you get home!"_ She's back to her scolding tone now.

"I won't, promise."

I hang up and stay where I am, leaning against Baz and letting his fingers wander through my messy hair.

"We should get to bed." Baz's voice is velvety, soft and smooth and rich. It washes over me and I want to hear it again. I don't want to move. I don't want to spoil this moment.

I shrug.

"You can't be comfortable on the floor." He's still hushed, voice low.

"I'm fine."

**Baz**

I don't know what I'm doing.

I could have stayed here all night, leaning into the warmth of Simon. I can see why he never complains about being cold, his body radiates heat like a furnace. It was a wrench to pull myself away when his mobile went off.

I should have left, gone upstairs, let him talk to Bunce in private.

Except he didn't want me to. And then he moved across the room to sit near me.

I was completely undone when he let his head fall back onto my knee. Those bright, bronze curls, so close, so inviting.

So soft.

He's letting me do this. Letting me run my fingers through his hair. I've dreamed of this.

I don't know what's happening.

I don't know what I'm doing.

I don't know what we're doing.

Are we doing something? What does this even mean? I can't think right now.

I can't think when he's so close to me.

**Simon**

It's taking all my self-control to keep myself from turning around to look at Baz. I want to. I want to see his face.

But I want him to keep running his fingers through my hair. So I stay still.

**Baz**

It could be moments or hours later. I've no idea. Time's stopped for me, here with Simon.

My fingers are still slowly winding through his curls. It's surreal to watch my hand bury itself in the bronze glory of Simon's hair.

It's exhilarating that he's letting me.

I'm sure it's late.

We should go upstairs. We should get to bed.

The thought of sharing a bed with Simon again is intoxicating. Having him so close, sharing the same space, it's a heady sensation.

It takes great effort but I finally drag my fingers from his hair and force myself to stand up. I don't know if the room is truly warmer or if it's me, my face flushed, my skin tingling from the awareness of Simon's proximity. I'm burning with it.

He looks up, eyebrows drawing together in a perplexed expression.

"Come on. Let's go up. It should be warm enough by now."

Simon doesn't move. He's looking at me, the mesmerizing blue of his eyes rooting me to the spot. I feel slow and sluggish, my tongue heavy as I try to make words form.

In the end I just reach out my hand and he takes it, warm fingers closing around mine. I pull and he comes to a stand, closer than I expect. He's mere inches away from me, gaze never straying, and the air is electric between us.

It's almost too much for me. I'm not adequately prepared for my teenage dreams to suddenly be coming to life before my very eyes.

I turn away from the entrancing sight of him and start to move towards the stairs. His grip on my hand doesn't let up.

"Wait. We should take the blankets." He pulls his own from the floor, never letting go of me.

I clutch my blanket to my chest with my free arm and somehow we manage to awkwardly climb up the narrow stairs, still hand in hand.

He doesn't let go until we're by the bed.

The incandescent heat of the moments before is muted now. We pile the blankets on the comforter, the vast width of the bed separating us.

"I don't think there'll be much hot water, with the power outage."

I've no idea why I said that.

Simon blinks at me. "What?"

"I don't think it would be wise to shower tonight. With the power outage. The water is bound to be cold."

Christ, what am I doing?

He blinks again. "Oh. Right."

I've got Simon Snow across the bed from me and I'm blathering on about the water. "I'll go get changed." I escape to the privacy of the bathroom.

I splash cold water on my heated face and stare into the mirror. I'm not sure how to process this. My second chance is taking a surprising detour. One that I've been longing for but the possibility of it becoming reality has me dazed.

This rapport with Simon, it's so delicate, so new, so fragile.

I'm not sure I know how to navigate this.

It's unknown territory.

**Simon**

If you'd asked me two days ago, how I felt about Baz Pitch, I'd have said he's an arrogant tosser and maddeningly fit.

I've not changed my mind on the fit part.

Or the maddening part.

I think Baz just did a runner for the bathroom and I'm not sure why. It was all so good just now, downstairs.

So much more than I'd expected when I'd asked him to sit by me. More than I'd dared to hope for, when he pressed himself against me. When his head was resting on my shoulder. When his fingers trailed against my scalp, soft and electric.

It was heady, I'll not argue that point. Every nerve was alight.

I pace for a bit.

He doesn't come out right away.

I pace for a bit more and then do what I always did back at Watford. I knock on the door. "Oi. Baz. You going to be all night?"

"I'll be out in a minute."

I keep standing in front of the door and when it finally opens Baz almost walks into me. There's an amused look on his face. "Stop lurking."

"I'm not lurking."

We're standing chest to chest and that electric sensation is back.

His fingers brush my shoulder and then he slides by me. "All yours, Simon."

**Baz**

I dive under the covers. Bloody hell. These sheets are freezing. I tuck the blankets around me and curl up on the edge of the mattress. Now that I'm in the bed my uncertainties overwhelm me.

What do I do when he comes to bed? Do I move near him? Do I stay on the edge, like I did last night? I'm at a loss.

I can't even trust myself to talk to him right now and not say something remarkably stupid.

I don't know how to be with him like this.

I'll stay where I am. It will be enough knowing he's there, just an arm's reach away.

**Simon**

I don't think I've ever taken a piss that quickly.

Baz is tucked under the mound of blankets when I come out. All I can see is his dark mane of hair peeking out.

I burrow between the cold sheets and switch off the table lamp.

Baz is all the way on the other side, practically hugging the edge of the bed.

He doesn't need to do that. He's being an absolute prat. There's plenty of room. It's not like we weren't in this exact situation last night.

Except there wasn't that undercurrent of something else last night, I remind myself.

I don't care. He was closer to me just a half hour ago. He was literally running his fingers through my hair. He's being an absolute pillock.

Something changed tonight. And I'm not going to let him pretend it didn't. I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning and act as if nothing happened. Something did. Something I never expected to want this much.

I lay on my back. It's cold. Even with all the blankets. I typically run hot but not tonight, not right now.

I curl up on my side. My back is cold so close to the edge of the bed so I shift over a bit.

That's not the only reason I shift over. I don't like him being so far away. Not now that I know the touch of him.

Baz moves closer to his edge.

"Baz."

"What?"

"Stop being a pillock."

"I'm not being a pillock."

I wriggle closer. "Yes, you are. I know you're freezing over there."

"I'm fine."

I groan. "Listen, I'm trying to help."

"I'm fine."

I tug on the blankets, pulling them more to my side of the bed. That gets a reaction.

"What the fuck are you doing? You can't have all the blankets, Simon."

"Stop clutching the edge of the bed, Baz. It's warmer in the middle."

"I'm not clutching the edge of the bed."

"You're clutching it like a Victorian virgin on her wedding night." That should do it.

He's whipped around in an instant. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means? Stop being a prat." I pat the mattress in front of me. "Come on. Scoot over. It's warmer the closer you get to the middle."

He wiggles an inch away from the edge and I snort. "Come on, Baz."

He scoots over a little more.

I wait a moment. "Better?"

He grumbles inaudibly and then I hear a "Yes" from under the pile of blankets.

I roll on my back and shift until I'm almost in the middle of the bed. He's mere inches away from me.

I wait. The mattress dips a little and then he's closer. He rolls on his back too.

I slide over until my shoulder barely brushes his. Our arms are next to each other.

He doesn't move away.

In the dark my hand finds his. His cold fingers lace between my own. I tilt my head towards him.

He mirrors the motion.

The scent of his hair washes over me. I wait a moment and then turn my head in his direction. His fingers grip mine tightly and then he turns his head towards me.

"Hey."

"Hey."

I bring our joined hands up to my lips and press a kiss to his knuckles. There's a fluttering in my chest as I hear him sigh.

I want this. With Baz.

I roll on my side, to face him, our linked hands on the pillow between us.

**Baz**

The sensation of his lips brushing my skin makes me shiver. It's nothing to do with the cold. It's everything to do with the fact that he's here, in this bed with me, holding my hand so tenderly.

I mirror his position, so I'm facing Simon, hands still linked. All I can see is the silhouette of him in the dim light but I can imagine what he looks like right now.

I've seen him in my dreams enough times.

I could kiss him.

I could lean forward and kiss him.

**Simon**

I can barely make out the shape of him in the dark. I shift a bit closer and reach out to brush his hair away from his face with my hand. I let it linger there, reluctant to pull away but I don't want to overstep.

Baz turns his face into my hand so I end up cupping his cheek. He shifts even closer to me and I'm holding my breath as my fingers slide up into the smooth strands of his hair.

I hear him sigh again. I can feel his breath on my skin this time.

I run my thumb along his cheekbone. And then I lean in.

Closer.

And do what I've wanted to do all night.

It's a soft brush of lips, no more than that.

One kiss.

But in that moment, it's everything.

**Baz**

I'm pressed up against the heat of Simon's body, his arm curled around me and his fingers gently tangling in my hair.

He's warm and solid, gentle and comforting.

I'm thrumming with elation but immobilized by sheer astonishment.

Simon Snow kissed me.

I kissed Simon Snow.

I keep repeating that astounding revelation in my head as I tentatively slide my arm around his waist and I feel him pull me closer when I do.

My eyes close and Simon's steady heartbeat eventually lulls me to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks to everyone for the comments and messages about this fic! I'm so glad you like it! For the guests who've left comments-wish I could respond directly but thank you for reading and commenting! And for those wondering about magic and Ebb and Nicky-this is a non-magical AU so Simon and Baz didn't know Ebb or Nicodemus before this weather adventure of theirs!_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Baz**

I wake up with my head resting on Simon's chest, his arms around me. I don't think either of us have moved from our positions last night.

He's sleeping. I can tell by the pattern of his breathing. I've spent enough restless nights listening to it.

Simon Snow kissed me.

It's hours later but the elation of that realization hasn't left me. I'm smiling at the very thought of it.

I want to kiss him again.

**Simon**

I wake up to the light touch of Baz's fingertips tracing patterns on my chest. I don't move or open my eyes. I don't want him to stop.

But he does.

He stays in my arms but the motion of his fingers ceases. He must have figured out I'm awake. Damn.

I rub small circles onto his back and open my eyes. "Good morning." I press a light kiss to the top of his head.

He shifts, then lifts his head up to look at me. It's light enough in the room that I can see the iridescent blues and greens of his eyes. It's mesmerizing.

I can't help but grin at him.

This is so much better than fighting.

Baz moves so his head is propped on one arm. He's not said anything yet. I miss the weight of him on my chest already.

We stare at each other for a moment. It could be ten seconds. It could be ten minutes. I have no concept of time right now.

His lips quirk into a smile as his gaze shifts down. He's impossibly close and then he's even closer. His mouth makes contact with mine and the slow, smooth slide of his lips drives all thought from me.

The smile's still there when he pulls back to whisper. "Good morning, Simon."

He's leaning over me so I reach up and find his lips again.

**Baz**

The reality of kissing Simon is far better than anything my imagination could conjure.

He's got both hands in my hair and I could dissolve from that sensation alone, but he's got this way of moving his lips and doing this thing with his jaw that makes me quiver.

I've kissed a few blokes over the years. Nothing compares to this. It's like someone lit a fire in my chest and fanned the flames.

We don't stop kissing until the alarm on my mobile startles us apart.

I reach for it, to shut it off, but then remember the reality of today.

I need to check our flight status, see if we have any chance of leaving. The outside world breaks into the bubble of Simon and me and for the first time since my flight got cancelled in New York I find myself apprehensive to check my mobile.

I want to get home for Christmas.

I want to stay here, in this room, with Simon. I feel as if all of this will disappear once we leave Ebb's inn. That it will have been an illusion, a fever dream, the overwrought delusions of my exhausted mind.

I bury my face in Simon's neck and breathe in the scent of him. I want to memorize this moment, tuck it away for later, keep it safe from the incursions of the real world that lurk outside these walls.

**Simon**

This is how mornings should start. With the sensuous slide of lips and tongues, the gentle touch of fingertips cupping my face, and the sight of Baz Pitch smiling down at me.

Until an alarm blasts into the silence and we spring apart. Baz grabs his mobile and shuts it off.

He buries his face in my neck and it's simultaneously the most endearing and agonizingly vulnerable thing I've ever seen him do. My arms wrap around him and my fingers stroke through his hair.

I'd do anything to make him happy and keep him safe. That's the overriding thought going through my head as I hold him and murmur "it's ok" as if the words are some sort of arcane spell to protect him.

I don't know what I'm even protecting him from. The world outside, the expectations that are put on him, his own thoughts? All of it. I'll do whatever it takes to see him as he was a few minutes ago.

**Baz**

I melt into Simon's arms. I can't think right now. I just want to be here, in this moment.

He's whispering words into my hair, his breath stirring the strands, the warmth of it searing into me.

I can't stay here forever.

I want to.

**Simon **

Baz pulls back, his eyes that stormy grey again. He leans down and brushes his lips to mine, a fleeting touch but still tender, and then he sits up to lean against the headboard.

I sit up too and scoot next to him. He's focused on his mobile, so I watch his fingers tap the keyboard and flick through the bookmarked pages. I rest my head on his shoulder.

"The flight is still posted."

"What's that mean?"

"It means we've got a chance of flying out today. Let me check the airport status."

His fingers tap at the screen. "There are no alerts posted. I think that means it's open."

"The airport is?"

"Yes, Washington." Baz taps a few more times. "In ideal conditions it should take us a little over two hours to get there. I'm sure it will take us longer than that."

"When's the flight?"

"Tonight."

I lift my head to look at him. "You'll get home by Christmas."

Baz nods. "After a fashion. It'll be afternoon by the time we get there."

"It'll still be Christmas day, no matter how late."

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes and sighs. I'm not sure if it's from relief or something else.

My hand finds his and I lace our fingers together. "What time do you want to leave?"

"I'd like to go as soon as possible. I don't know how chaotic things will be today."

"Alright then."

My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly.

Baz laughs.

Christ, it's a glorious sound.

**Baz **

"I promise I won't make you leave without breakfast." I squeeze his hand and feel the warm, comforting pressure back.

I suppose I should get out of bed. We need to get on the road. I've no idea what to expect with the snow and the ice.

I start making a list in my head:

Must check the status of the roads.

Print out our tickets. Just in case. I wonder if Ebb will let me use her printer. Does she have a printer? She must have one.

I should put petrol in the Rover.

Give Father an update.

Return the rental.

Spend this day with Simon.

It hits me then. Once we get to London, that's it. He'll go to his flat and I'll go to Hampshire. And in a week I'll be back in New York.

I don't even have his number.

Well, that's one issue I can solve right now.

"Here." I hand Simon my mobile.

"What?"

"Put your number in."

He looks puzzled. "I'll be with you all day."

"I know that. I want your number. For after."

His smile lights up the room. Looking at Simon Snow is like gazing directly into the sun. It's searing brightness, comforting heat and if you look too long you'll find yourself consumed.

He hands my mobile back and then reaches to the nightstand for his own. "Call me. I'll save you in my contacts."

I find his name and the smiling emoji he put next to it in my contacts and press the call button. Seeing _Simon Snow _on my screen reassures me a little. It's tangible evidence this happened. It's proof that we're . . . I don't know quite what we are.

But whatever this is, I'll take it.

**Simon**

It doesn't take us long to pack our bags and get down to the kitchen. Ebb's already there, at the stove. It's early but the dining room is bustling. Seems Baz isn't the only one who wants to get on the road.

I want to get back home too.

I'm going to do my best to savor this day. I don't know what will happen when we get back to London. I'm not going to think about that. I'm just going to focus on today.

And the fact that I've got Baz's number in my mobile.

"Nicky thinks the roads are still a bit of a mess," Ebb says, interrupting my daydreaming. "But Baltimore is opening at noon and he said Washington is up and running." She looks over her shoulder at us. "Means you boys will be on your way."

"I should ask him about our route." Baz rests his hand on my shoulder for a moment and squeezes. "I'll be right back."

I stay in the kitchen with Ebb.

"Don't you want some breakfast, Simon?" She's pouring the scrambled egg mixture into a pan.

"Yeah, I'll not pass it up. But I think I'll wait for Baz."

She gives me a long, searching look and then her lips quirk up.

"Sit yourself down. I'll feed you here. It's a bit of a madhouse in the dining room at the moment."

"I can help, if you need."

"You're a guest. Sit down and have a cup of tea. I'll be alright."

I sit at Ebb's kitchen table, a mug of tea warming my hands. Even with all the frenetic activity in the room next door and Ebb banging pots and pans and dishes in here, it's still got an air of tranquility about it. I can't describe it. It feels good.

It doesn't take long for Baz to come back.

He slides into the chair next to me, our knees bumping under the small table. "Sounds like the snow is cleared but the roads are still icy. I think we should head out soon."

"Fine with me." I purposefully bump his knee again. He bumps it back and then leaves his leg pressed against mine. There's a small smile on his face and his gaze is so tender it makes my breath catch.

"Here you go." Ebb slides a plate down in front of me and then does the same for Baz. "Eat up. There's plenty more. Who knows what they'll feed you boys on that plane."

Baz quirks an eyebrow and Ebb catches his look. "It's quieter in here. Thought you two could do without the chatter." She tips her head towards the dining room. I can hear the buzz of conversation through the doorway.

The food is splendid and Ebb is generous with the portions. I eagerly grab heaping second helpings of everything as Baz shakes his head.

"The way you eat, Simon."

"Got a good metabolism." It comes out a bit garbled with the food in my mouth.

Which makes him laugh.

He'd sneer at me, back at school, for taking second helpings, for talking with my mouth full, for just about anything.

It's jarring still, expecting one reaction and getting something so utterly at odds with my memories.

I like it.

**Baz**

Simon is eating as if airport restaurants don't exist and airlines don't serve meals.

I watch him.

It's liberating, to be able to do this, without having to shade my observation of him with critical comments or sneering looks. The lengths I'd gone to at school-to keep Dev, Niall, and the others from realizing how I felt about him-haunt me now.

The effort I put into preventing Simon from discovering I was in love with him.

I can't come out and say it, even now.

Christ, I can't even imagine it.

_Hello, Simon. Yes, I've been an absolute bloody arsehole to you for years but really, it's because I've been so desperately in love with you._

Right. Nothing creepy and unnerving about that confession.

A part of me wants to apologize, to recant all the snide commentary and puerile insults I sent his way.

A part of me never wants to think about those times again.

A part of me wants to tell him just how much he means to me.

Right. None of that's appropriate at the moment.

I've got to get us home. I can sort this tangle of emotions out later.

**Simon**

Our satchels are by the door and the dining room is blissfully empty again. Baz is settling up the bill with Ebb and I'm just standing around in the foyer, waiting for him to finish. I felt awkward, watching him pay her, but he cut me off when I asked about my share.

"Simon. Please, let it be."

So, I did.

His cool fingers find mine moments later. "Ready to go?"

"I'll say a quick goodbye to Ebb."

Baz nods. "I'll get our things in the car then. Come out when you're done." He grabs one bag in each hand and heads out the front door.

Ebb's back in the kitchen already, tackling the mound of washing up from earlier.

"Hey, Ebb."

She turns from the sink and wipes her hands on a dishtowel.

"Heading out then?"

"Baz wants to get on the road."

"Well, I wish you safe travels. Sorry your plans got derailed but it's been nice having the both of you here." She beams at me.

"Thanks for the hospitality. And the food." I pause, trying to find the right words. "And the advice."

Her smile widens. "Ah. You'd have figured it out yourself eventually." She opens her arms and I walk into her warm embrace.

"Thanks, Ebb."

She shifts back but leaves her hands on both my shoulders, her bright blue eyes smiling up at me from under her bangs. "Things are good? From the looks of you two just now I'd say you've sorted some things." She winks.

I can't help but grin back at her. "Things are great."

**Baz**

Sgt. Petty was right. The roads are still shit. The snow's been cleared for the most part but what's left has a layer of ice right over it so it's still slow going on the roadways.

It will take us more than two hours to get to the airport.

We'll still be there in plenty of time. It's an evening flight but I've got no idea how mobbed security will be or how long it will take to return the car. I've never hired one before this adventure.

Simon is humming along to the radio. I let him choose the station. This song is abysmal but I like listening to him.

I dart a glance in his direction every so often and each time I'm met the sight of him smiling back at me.

I could get used to this.

**Simon **

Baz is much less tense this time. Driving in that storm was brutal. The roads are still not ideal but it's certainly not as treacherous.

I'm turned in my seat, my shoulder against the door. I can look at him more easily this way.

I like to look at him.

Penny is going to be a nightmare. She's going to go on and on about how obsessed I was with Baz at school, how she knew there was more to it than thinking he was an absolute tit.

I can just imagine the rant I'm going to have to endure about this.

Whatever this is.

What does it mean when you spend an entire evening curled up together, sleep through the night holding hands and wake up to morning kisses?

I know what I'd like it to mean.

I'd like it to mean we're going to do that again.

I want to ask Baz but I also don't know what he's going to say.

He asked for my number.

He's going back to New York in a week.

I realize I haven't asked him much about what he's been doing since I saw him last. Why he's in America. What's gone on with him since Watford.

Why he's so different. Why he spent the morning trailing kisses along my jaw, my neck, sliding his lips over mine time and time again.

"Can I ask you something?" The words are out of my mouth before I quite think this through.

I flush. I certainly can't ask him that last question.

Baz looks startled for a moment and his shoulders draw up, but then he schools his features. I've seen him do that countless times. "Yes?"

"It's . . . I was wondering. I've not seen you since we graduated and I was thinking I'd like to know what you've been doing since then."

His shoulders drop and his features relax. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

He tells me about Oxford. About rooming with Dev. About the move to New York six months ago and how much he hates it.

How he's holding out hope that they'll let him transfer to the new London branch in the spring.

"What will you do if they don't?"

He doesn't answer right away. His fingers clench and unclench on the steering wheel. "I suppose I'll leave then."

"You'd walk away?"

"It's a good job but it's not like there aren't other ones. Yes, it's a prestigious firm. Yes, it would be great to be part of the key initial staff at the London office." He sighs and his eyebrows draw together. "But that might not happen. I need to be prepared for that."

"Would you stay in New York?" There are many reasons why his answer matters. I can't even let myself think about that. My heart starts racing before he even responds.

Baz shakes his head. "No. I'd go back to London. I don't particularly like New York." He turns in my direction. "How's Bunce like Chicago?"

"She likes it well enough. Micah's got a huge family, like she does, so I suppose it's been a comfort having that. But I think once grad school is done they'll both move back to London."

Baz's gaze slides in my direction again. "And what about you?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**Baz**

Simon tells me about his coursework, the various pursuits that have culminated in his degree in Social Work.

It's not surprising that he has spent the last four years sharing a flat with Bunce. The continued warmth and closeness of their relationship is evident in his words.

He's taken this year off to earn some money and gain some work proficiency. It sounds as if the entire endeavor is more a volunteer experience than a truly compensated one. Simon may be the Activities Director at this care home but he's being paid a pittance for all the hours he puts in.

His equanimity about it all is humbling.

"There's not much of a budget for such things, Baz. We didn't even have formal Activities Directors at the homes I was in. One of the matrons would organize a day-out here and there but nothing consistent. Occasionally some rich bloke would donate a small sum or a football club would give us free tickets to a match, but that was about it. This place has a discretionary budget for outings and events. I'd rather they spend that money on the kids than pay my wages."

"You've still got expenses, Simon."

It eventually comes out that he's been obliged to move to a smaller place now, in a much dodgier neighbourhood, since Bunce moved to America.

I don't like it.

I think of my London flat, in the heart of Chelsea: sleek, minimalist, modern.

Cold and sterile.

And with my move to New York, unoccupied.

It's on the tip of my tongue to say something but what? "_Move into my place?"_

It's absurd. I chide myself for even letting the thought form.

I don't know what we're doing, what the last twenty-four hours mean. If this means anything.

It means something to me.

But it certainly doesn't translate into suddenly offering Simon Snow—a man I haven't seen in over four years, a man I've barely been civil to for more than a day—my flat.

My thoughts take their own course, spiraling downward onto their own gloomy path.

I'm fooling myself. It's been nothing short of a miracle, the last twenty-four hours, but it can't be destined for more than that. Not with Simon in London and me in New York. Not with that sort of distance. It's too much to expect things to change that much for us.

Simon's still chattering on. I shake my dark thoughts away and try to focus on him again.

"I like the work. I'm trying to structure it—art and creative play for the little 'uns, more physically strenuous activities for the older boys—I always felt like there was a fire snaking its way under my skin when I was in the homes. It never felt like I could expend the energy that was building up in me." He sighs. "Probably why I got into so many fistfights."

"So, it wasn't just me you punched?" I give him a sidelong look.

Simon grins. "Nah. Although you certainly asked for it."

"I did not."

His grin gets even wider. "You did, you posh twat. With your cutting commentary, open hostility, unparalleled arrogance. And that condescending sneer I couldn't wait to wipe off your face."

"Such fond memories you have of me, Simon."

His eyes go soft. "I do now."

My breath catches. I blink at him for a moment before dragging my eyes back to the road.

When he says things like that . . . it makes me think . . . it makes me feel my world has shifted. That nothing will ever be the same.

That's just wishful thinking.

He may be here with me now.

But London and New York are worlds apart.

**Simon**

It's unexpected, seeing Baz get rattled so easily.

I like it. I like that I can do that to him.

It's been so agreeable, being with him. If someone had told me four years ago, four months ago, _four days ago_—that I'd be spending part of last night and most of this morning snogging Baz Pitch I'd have told them they were stark raving mad.

I'd have told them they were mad if they even suggested I'd be able to carry on a civil conversation with him.

Yet here we are.

It's good. It's too good to be true, honestly.

And that's what scares me a bit. What is this?

What happens next?

I promised myself I wouldn't let Baz pretend nothing had happened between us. I've managed that. But what about after we get home?

I've got his number. He's got mine. That doesn't guarantee anything. What are the chances of him calling me, once he's back in New York?

I'll be in London. He'll be here.

Whatever this is, it's possible it could be over before it's even gotten started.

I'm not prepared to let that happen.

Not on my watch. I want to know what Baz is thinking.

I had a sense of what he was like, at school, but that impression's been blown to bits over the last forty-eight hours. I can't predict him anymore.

"Baz."

"Yes?"

"I've got another question."

I can see him tense up again, shoulders going rigid.

"What is it?" His words are quiet, almost hesitant.

"What's going on?"

I hear his sharp intake of breath. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. What's going on? With us?"

Silence.

"Baz?"

He doesn't answer. I lean towards him, trying to get a better look at his face.

His words come out as a whisper. "There is no us, really, is there, Simon? Just this very pathetic and misguided road trip I've dragged you on."

"That's bollocks and you know it."

He darts a look at me. I stare right back at him.

"Come on, Baz. Don't say that. There's more going on than just a road trip." He can retreat into himself faster than anyone I've ever met.

He's so close and then he pulls away from me. Like always. But I'm not going to let him. Not this time.

His eyebrows lower.

"Pull over."

He does look at me now. "What?"

"There's a rest stop up ahead. Pull over."

"This is already taking us longer than it should. There is absolutely no reason to stop. We don't need more delays."

"We also don't need me taking a piss in the car now, do we?"

Baz grimaces but puts the turn signal on and navigates to the right lane.

He pulls into the nearly deserted rest stop, finds a parking spot close to the structure, and then turns to me. "Here you go, then. Time is of the essence."

I don't move.

He gestures to the building in front of us.

I shake my head.

He leans his head back and sighs. "I thought you had to piss."

"I might. I might not."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Baz turns to me, frustration and confusion clearly visible on his face.

"I asked you a question."

"Are you serious, Snow? You had me pull over for this?"

"Yes, I did and it's Simon."

He sinks down in the seat and looks out the window.

"Baz."

"I don't know what to say, Simon."

"You could start off by saying nothing's going back to normal after this."

"Why? Because we're friends now?"

"We're more than that and you know it."

He looks away from me again. "A few kisses and you think the world is upside down."

I unbuckle my seat belt. He turns at the sound.

I lean over the console and take him by the back of the neck, pulling his face to mine. "More than a few kisses," I whisper, silencing him with my lips.

The car is fogging up by the time I pull back and meet Baz's eyes. He looks dazed.

"This is more than a misguided road trip, Baz."

He presses his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. Then he nods. "It's more." He swallows and then continues, his voice so low I can barely catch the words. "It's more than I ever hoped for."

"What do you mean, Baz?"

He doesn't respond, just keeps his forehead pressed to mine.

I need to keep him talking to me, I can't give him the chance to pull back and hide under that bloody mask of his again.

The silence stretches out.

I suppose the talking is up to me, then. "What I'm trying to say is I like you, Baz. I like _this_. I like _us._" I push a strand of his hair away from his face. "I'm enjoying every minute of it. And I think you are too."

Baz pulls away from me slightly. His grey eyes open and one eyebrow arches. It's as infuriating and entrancing as ever. "It's not been as disagreeable as I expected."

I can't help the laugh that spills out of me. Typical Baz. He's such a git.

"Oh, shut up. You told me I was pleasant company earlier."

"I'll be tempted to revise that opinion, if you keep delaying our progress."

"You just confirmed it. That I'm pleasant company. Caught by your own words." I let my fingers trace along his jaw. "Admit it, why don't you?"

Baz's eyes close once more. The silence stretches out for longer this time. It's finally broken by his sharp intake of breath just before he closes the distance between us again.

It's awkward, positioned like this in the car, the armrest digging into my side. I don't care. All that matters are Baz's hands in my hair, his lips on my mouth, the heat of his touch searing me as he murmurs words into our shared breaths. "I like you, Simon. Christ, I've liked you for years." His voice drops even lower, so I have to strain to hear him. "This is all I've ever wanted. All I've dreamed of."

My brain ceases functioning. I think I'm having a snog-induced auditory hallucination. I can't have heard him right.

I think Baz just said he's liked me for years? And dreamed of . . . of this?

That can't be right. Can it?

I want it to be. I can't believe how much I want that to be true.

Baz pulls back to look at me. "Simon?"

Oh. Right. Yes, snogging Baz, that's what I was doing when my brain went off the rails there.

"Baz, did you just say what I think you said?"

His face flushes.

"I'm not quite sure what you're referring to." His eyes dart away from me and the flush on his face deepens.

He's nervous.

I've seen many unexpected facets of Baz in the last forty-eight hours. This may be one of my favourites so far.

"You know what I'm referring to. '_All I've ever wanted' _you said?" My lips brush his again and I can't help but smile as they do. "Tell me more about that, would you? I quite like the sound of it."

I do like it. I like it quite a lot. It's got my heart racing and my brain is whirling with the implications of his words.

Baz drops his head onto my shoulder and groans. "Ugh, you won't do me a favor and pretend you didn't hear that, would you?"

"Absolutely not. I want to hear you say it again."

Baz groans once more but as I glance down at his bowed head I can see his lips curving up.

"Come on, Baz. Don't leave me hanging like this. '_For years? _What's that even mean? I spent all that time convinced you hated me. I'd have said you still did, if you'd asked me last week."

He grumbles into my shoulder but then sits up, facing forward in the driver's seat. He goes to pull his hands into his lap but I grab onto his arm, slide my fingers down to grip his, and hold on tightly.

"Alright, I know I was a complete wanker at school."

I snort. "No argument there."

Baz darts a sidelong look at me. "Yes, well." He takes a deep breath and then exhales a rush of air without speaking. He frowns and glances at me again. "This is going to sound ridiculous."

"Don't care. Come on. Spill. For someone who's in such a rush to get to the airport, you're taking far too long giving a simple explanation now." It's exhilarating to see him so uncertain. I'm usually the one tripping over my words. I tug on his hand, reminding him that I'm holding it.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, closes his eyes and takes another breath. "Fine. Yes, I was a wanker, I'll admit that." His eyes stay closed. "I'm a bit of a prick in general, even Dev and Niall won't argue that point, but I was quite a prick to you, Simon." His chews on his bottom lip and I'm dazed at this side of Baz I've never seen before.

This reluctant, hesitant side of him.

It doesn't last long.

"Oh, fuck it all." His eyebrows come together and he turns to look at me, lips in a thin line and forehead creased. Alright. This is more like the Baz I know. It still makes me want to smile though. "There's no good way to say this so I'll just come out with it."

His fingers squeeze mine painfully hard. "I've liked you for so long, Simon. Maybe even from the first day we met." He shakes his head at what must be my no-doubt incredulous expression. "Let me just finish. I can't believe I'm actually confessing to this. You asked for an explanation and I'm doing my best to give you one, painfully mortifying as it may be."

His frown shifts to something softer, but more troubled and uncertain. "Simon, you were all I could think about. By fifth year, you were in my thoughts day and night, even when I was home for the holidays. I never wanted you to know. I'd no hope you'd like me that way." His brow furrows again. "You were Simon Snow, the boy everyone liked, the gorgeous, straight boy all the girls swooned over. The Headmaster's chosen one." His eyes flick away from me. "I was the posh arsehole everyone disliked."

I tug on his hand. "The girls swooned over you far more than they swooned over anyone else." It was true. Even Agatha had a crush on Baz. That was one of the reasons I'd disliked him. How could I ever measure up to _Baz? _"Fuck, Baz. Even I thought you were fit."

His eyebrows go straight up to his hairline and it's my turn to blush. "What?"

I roll my eyes. "You heard me."

Baz's features settle into a look I know well, one eyebrow arched and he repeats my own words back to me. "I want to hear you say it again." There's a quirk to his lips now.

"Arsehole."

"No argument on that." He's grinning now, the tosser. How did he turn things around like this? This was his confession, not mine. Bloody hell. He's always managed to get me tripping over my own words. That's not changed.

"I said I thought you were fit." I mumble the words, face flaming now. "Still do, you fucking twat."

"I've thought you were fit since I first figured out what that meant, Simon." His smile becomes fond. "Still do." Baz's hand reaches up, fingers tracing my jawline. "I had such a hopeless crush on you, Simon Snow. I was so certain it was to be forever unrequited. I did everything I could to make you hate me, in the hopes of making myself hate you in return." He leans closer. "I never managed to do that." His lips crash into mine and it's electric, the touch of him sending shivers through me, his fingertips leaving trails of heat along my face, my jaw, my neck.

I'm breathless by the time he pulls back.

"I suppose it's never too late to apologize?"

"I'm due eight years of apologies, Baz." My heart is pounding in my chest. "If that's how you intend to apologize then I mean to make sure you account for every single day."

Baz's smile makes his eyes crinkle in the corners. "I'll strike one more day off the accounting, shall I then, before we get back on the road?"

It's probably about three days' worth but I'll never tell him that.

We're back on the road before I realize Baz never answered my question. I'm still a bit dazed. I've not been this well-snogged since . . . since . . .

Well, since this morning, I suppose.

Fuck.

He just drives every thought right out of my head when he says things like that. And does things like that. I almost feel drunk. On Baz.

I've never had a chance to just look at him, like I do now. Just let myself indulge in the sight of him. I wasn't lying when I told him I thought he was fit. I've thought that for years. I just didn't let myself follow that concept to its logical conclusion.

It took me awhile to figure it all out. That I'm attracted to blokes too.

Baz must notice me staring. He gives me a sidelong look. "What?"

I swallow but keep my eyes fixed on him. "You never actually answered my question."

"I did."

"You did not. I asked you what this was." I wave a hand between us. "You gave me a stunning confession, an overdue apology, and then a bloody good snog. But you didn't answer the question, Baz."

His brow creases but his eyes rest softly on mine before he returns his attention to the road. "I don't know if I have an answer, Simon. I know what I want the answer to be." He darts a glance at me again. "But I've never done this kind of thing before."

"Dating?" I find that hard to believe.

"What?" I get a glare from him this time. "Of course, I've dated, you absolute numpty. I meant I've never had a long-distance relationship. London to New York is a bit of a stretch."

I scoot so I'm resting against the door. "Oh, well that's all right then. Pen and Micah managed for years between Chicago and London. This shouldn't be any harder."

**Baz**

I just stare at him. There he sits, leaning against the car door, nonchalantly dismissing the fact that we'll be on completely different continents, for who knows how long, with a careless wave of his hand.

It sends a rush of warmth right through me. I think Simon can make anything seem possible.

Even this.

The last two days have been surreal. I keep expecting this to be a dream and that I'm going to wake up in my drab Manhattan flat, alone and morose, like usual. But then it keeps going. It's not a dream. It's like a wish fulfillment only so much better than my imagination could conjure.

"The distance doesn't bother you?"

"Of course, it bothers me. But it's not like it's going to be forever, right? You'll be coming back to London in the spring, maybe? Or permanently, if the job doesn't work out." He tilts his head back to rest on the window. "I dunno. It doesn't feel like something we can't handle." His grin is unexpected. "We managed being roommates who detested each other for years. I'm thinking being boyfriends will be a bit easier, yeah?"

He's ridiculous. He's a gorgeous muppet with no concept of the real world. No comprehension of the unpredictability of my profession. The stress long-distance puts on a relationship.

He just used the word _boyfriends _in reference to us and I feel light-headed. I breathe in and out for a moment before I answer.

"You'd be willing to try that?" I wave my hand between us like he did a bit ago. I'm at a loss for words at the moment. "This. Us?"

I sound like an utter tit.

He nods instantly. "Yeah. I mean, why not? I like you. You like me." He gives me a hard look. "You said so, I heard it, you don't get to pretend you didn't say it."

I can't help smiling at his words. "I'm not going to deny it, Simon. You have no idea what a relief it is to finally be able to say those words out loud." It is. It undeniably is.

The answering smile on his face is enough for me. Alright then. Simon thinks we can make a go of this. I'm not about to say no to that.

I'm done with denial. This is my second chance and I am not about to let myself fuck this up.

"Alright then."

"Alright? For real? I get to be your terrible boyfriend?"

What the devil does he mean by that? "My boyfriend." Christ, I like the sound of that. "Nothing terrible about it."

"Oh, I am a terrible boyfriend. You can ask Agatha. I say stupid things and forget important dates and I'm shit at texting and I'm an absolute tit on calls and I fall asleep at the cinema and I talk with my mouth full . . . "

"Stop."

"I'm just letting you know. Full disclosure."

"Shut up, Simon. I know all of that. I lived with you for eight years and was on the receiving end of more than one Wellbelove diatribe about you."

He sits up. "What? Agatha talked to you about me?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes. Everyone talked to me about you. It was infuriating. I was your roommate, which theoretically conferred some exalted status of understanding Simon Snow on me, in their opinion."

"Did it?"

"Did it what?"

"Confer all that rot you said?"

I'm not going to answer that. It's too incriminating.

"I've no idea. I just had the utterly maddening experience of having to listen to every excruciating detail of why you were so wonderful, how gloriously fucking attractive you were, how everyone had a bloody crush on you, when I already knew all that and was in love with you myself."

Oh, fuck.

_Fuck._

I can't look at him. I can feel my face blazing with heat. There's no escape from this car. I've never felt more desperate to spontaneously combust than at this exact moment. This would be an excellent time to wake up and find out this was simply a prolonged fantasy.

"You were _what?"_

I'm not answering. I am going to pretend Simon does not exist and forcibly will myself to wake up from the disastrous nightmare I find myself in at the moment.

"Baz. Talk to me."

"I've got nothing more to say. I can't imagine I can make it any worse but I'm not about to risk it."

Simon leans toward me and puts his hand on mine, where it rests on the gear shift. I can feel the warmth of him on my skin. "Baz."

I keep staring straight ahead. I can't look at him. It's one thing to confess to an unrequited crush. It's quite another to declare that you're in love with said crush. When you haven't technically even been on a first date.

I am such a fucking disaster.

Simon's fingers brush over my hand. His voice is soft when he speaks again. "Full disclosure, like I said. You know I'm a terrible boyfriend and I . . . I know . . . I know you want this to work out as much as I do." He leans even closer. "At least I'll be _your _terrible boyfriend. I can't think of anything I'd like better than that."

I don't know how I managed to be this lucky. To deserve someone like Simon Snow.

Someone who put up with years of my caustic bullshit and didn't end up hating me. Someone who trusted me on this madcap venture through a snowbound apocalypse. Someone who reached out to me with unexpected affection.

Someone who isn't flinching from these confessions that have unwittingly spilled out of me today.

I breathe in. And then out. Simon makes it seem so simple.

Maybe it is. Maybe I just overcomplicate everything.

Perhaps it's time to try something different.

"I feel as if I've fallen through the looking glass. I don't know how many impossible things I've come to believe in today." Another deep breath. "Having you as my terrible boyfriend has been one of those impossible dreams, Simon. I can't quite fathom that it's coming true."

I can't help the smile that comes over my face. I'm grinning like an idiot, I'm sure. But I don't care.

I'm awake. This is real.

Christ, I am living a charmed life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**Simon**

I continue to keep my fingers lightly pressed to the back of Baz's wrist as we near the airport. I don't know if I'm doing it for him or for me anymore.

I'm gobsmacked. There's no better way to put it.

Well, maybe _absolutely fucking gobsmacked _describes it better. I could see Baz was panicking, after he inadvertently confessed he'd been in love with me since Watford. I knew I had to say something, do something, to settle him. I think it worked. I've not spoken much since; my brain is still spinning with the implications of his words.

That's probably why I missed seeing the rental car return sign the first time we drove by it.

Baz somehow managed to get us to the correct exit our third time around (he couldn't get into the lane the second time) (the drivers are quite aggressive here) (and prone to rude gestures).

We take the shuttle to the terminal, swaying with the motion of the bus, shoulders brushing and bumping with the movement. I want to reach out and take his hand again. I don't. I'd probably fall over if I did—I'm holding the grab bar with one hand and my rucksack with the other.

I do take Baz's hand once we're in the terminal. His fingers weave between mine and he gives my hand a quick squeeze.

We don't talk much. Baz is preoccupied with the ticketing and our flight status. I just trail along in his wake. There are places for private conversations and a crowded airport isn't one of them.

Our tickets are sorted, flights are leaving on schedule, all seems in order. The tension in Baz's shoulders visibly recedes when he checks the monitor and sees 'on time' listed next to our flight status.

Traveling with Baz is nothing like traveling with Penny. He's got some special status that lets him breeze through security but they won't let me go through with him.

So he stays in the interminably long, slow queue of regular passengers with me.

"Come on, Baz. Go through your posh line. I'll find you on the other side. You'd already be at the gate if it wasn't for me."

He shakes his head and squeezes my hand again. "I'm fine right here with you, Simon."

It does get nicer once we pass through the security checkpoint. Baz has access to the first-class lounge. I don't quite understand the details of that. All I know is Baz completely charmed the middle-aged lady at the counter and somehow, she let me in with him.

It's full of comfortable looking furniture and low lighting. There's a huge buffet and that's all I'm focused on right now. Baz finds us seats in the lounge. "Go on, Simon. Some things never change, it seems. I don't know how you can be famished already." He looks at his watch. "You had breakfast at Ebb's just a few hours ago."

"Key words—a few hours ago. I'm not going to pass this up. Who knows what we'll get on the plane."

Baz shakes his head but he's smirking at me. "Off with you, then. I'll stay here with the bags." He settles into the thickly cushioned armchair and starts tapping at his mobile.

When I return from the buffet there is a hulking paragon of Nordic manhood eagerly chatting him up. He's perched on the chair across from Baz, leaning forward, gazing at him intently. His flinty ice-blue eyes give me a perfunctory glance before he renews his focus on Baz.

I stand there as this muscle-bound knobhead fake laughs and then runs a hand through his artfully disheveled hair, pausing far too long with his arm flexed, to show off his bulging bicep.

I think the fuck not, you Scandinavian gobshite.

I put my heaping plate down on the table and settle myself on the arm of Baz's chair, running my fingertips lightly across his shoulder until they rest on the back of his neck. I lean down. "I thought we could just share a plate, darling."

Both of Baz's eyebrows go up and he opens his mouth to say something and then stops, cheeks reddening. He blinks at me for a moment then tentatively slides his arm around my waist. "Thank you, love."

I stare down Nordic Man until he finally takes the hint and shoves off. I keep my hand on Baz's neck, gently tangling my fingers in his hair. He grins up at me. "You feeling alright, Snow? It's not like you to voluntarily share food."

It's my turn to flush. I don't even remind him to call me Simon.

I can't believe I just did that. I mean, I know I told Baz I wanted to be his terrible boyfriend in the car, but I hadn't quite expected to turn into a such a territorial, possessive boyfriend. I feel like a complete pillock.

Baz can talk to whoever he likes. I've got no say in it.

"Sorry, Baz."

His arm tightens around my waist as he pulls me closer and leans against my chest. "I appreciate the rescue, Simon. That was quite a tedious conversation."

I sag into him. "No, really, I'm sorry. I had no right to do that."

Grey eyes snap up to meet mine. "If you don't think I'd do the same in a heartbeat . . ."

I can't help but grin at that. We're in a public place, with people milling about all around us, but I press a quick kiss to his forehead anyway, right at his hairline. He closes his eyes and stays pressed up against me.

Christ, he smells good.

I eventually take the seat next to him. We take turns eating from the plate of food, as I only brought one fork back with me. He'd likely have gone off on how unsanitary that was, back at Watford, but he's not the same Baz anymore. He keeps surprising me.

I love it.

Our flight is still hours away. Baz calls his father and talks to all of his siblings by the sound of it, holding my hand the entire time.

He's rubbing circles on the back of it with his thumb. It's soothing. I've got so many questions, so many things I want to say to him, so many thoughts swirling through my head. It's a bit overwhelming. Too much to think about right now.

I can talk to him on the plane. I push the thoughts away, try to calm my breathing, my body, my mind.

So, of course, I end up falling asleep.

I wake with a snort when Baz shakes me. It's hours later. I rub my eyes and surreptitiously swipe at my chin to make sure I've not drooled on myself. Baz used to needle me about that when we roomed together.

Of course, there's a bit at the corner of my mouth. I really shouldn't let myself sleep in public. It's mortifying.

Especially when I see the way Baz is grinning at me. "Hazards of being a mouth-breather, Simon."

"Oh, shut up."

"Come along, time to head to the gate. You've slept away the entire afternoon away. I should have woken you up sooner." One eyebrow goes up again. I don't remember it ever looking this flirtatious before. "Does this mean you're going to be awake and distracting me on the flight?"

That was not the direction my thoughts had gone earlier, when I'd contemplated the flight, but I quite like the idea.

Fliratious Baz is a revelation but two can play at this. "Depends on what you mean by distraction."

His eyes widen and his breath catches.

Oh. That worked quite well now, didn't it?

Maybe too well. It sounded far less suggestive in my head. I'm actually too shy to get up to anything risqué on the flight. I'd likely expire of mortification.

"I mean . . . uh. . .That sounded like I'd. . . erm . . . not that I would, I mean—"

Baz swallows and his voice has that low, velvety purr to it when he speaks again. "I think it sounded just fine."

I may expire of mortification right now.

Grey eyes meet mine. "You've always been a distraction to me, Simon. Time hasn't changed that one bit." And just like that, he calms me down again, with those few words. I don't know how he does it. I don't know how he knows what I'm feeling. It's like magic.

**Baz **

Simon's always worn his heart on his sleeve, his emotions transparent, there for all the world to see.

He flustered me there, for a moment, but I'm far more experienced in keeping the external mask intact. Years of practice from when I shared a room with him.

He takes my breath away. From his righteous indignation when the Swedish bloke was talking with me to his own attempts at flirtation just now. It's a side of Snow—of Simon—that's utterly unfamiliar. It's like a scene from one the myriad fantasies I indulged in years ago.

It's better in real life.

All joking aside, I'd never manage to indulge in anything scandalous in public. I'm far too reserved to do that.

But I can certainly let myself imagine it.

It's so odd, this new-found rapport with him. He's simultaneously predictable and wildly surprising. It makes me feel unsteady, exhilarated, out of my depth.

I'm used to knowing things, to predicting his reactions, needling him to get the intended result. It worked flawlessly at school. But this is uncharted territory. Unknown waters. And it scares me almost as much as it excites me.

I didn't care so much if I made a wrong calculation in the past. It was trial and error, projected algorithms, years of perfecting the craft of annoying the fuck out of Snow. I'm probably the world's expert at it.

I don't want that.

I want him. With all his endearing idiosyncrasies. I want to know _him_, not how to irritate him. I don't want to make any blunders.

I want to make him happy. If I can.

I think I can. I'd like to try.

I'm delirious. He must think I'm a complete twat. I'm just staring at him now, after telling him he's been distracting me for years.

I've spilled so many of my secrets today. What's one more, I suppose? It's not as humiliating as confessing my love.

But even the aftermath of that isn't as frightfully mortifying as I expected it to be. He managed to keep me from utterly decompensating in the car. And he's been touching me—on my hand, my shoulder, my arm—almost nonstop since then.

I'd say that's a sign Simon's not too put off by it.

That and the way he reacted when he thought someone was trying to monopolize my attention. That was particularly gratifying. I'm unaccountably fond of that expression on his face. The confrontational one where he juts out his jaw and lowers his brows. It used to take all my willpower to maintain an icy detachment when he'd look at me like that.

It made me want to snog him senseless.

Still does.

Simon shrugs. It's such a familiar gesture. "You're pretty bloody distracting yourself."

"Obviously not enough to keep you awake for the last few hours," I say crisply, causing him to give an unexpected bark of laughter.

We make our way to the gate. We're in the first boarding group so we queue up. Simon fidgets with his bag, his hair, his pockets. He's full of nervous energy.

I'm not surprised. These last few days have been far too sedentary. Too much sitting. Too much time indoors. He's always chafed at inactivity. I'm surprised he's lasted this long.

Simon was exasperating when I would try to study in our room. He has a habit of jiggling his leg when he sits. In class. At meals. When he's studying. It makes whatever chair he's sitting in rattle in a truly maddening fashion.

I honestly don't know how Bunce tolerated sharing a table with him in the library or at meals.

Fortunately, he spent most of his evenings out, studying with Bunce, but on the occasions he would grace our room with his presence his constant movement would set my teeth on edge.

I'd get my energy and frustrations out on the football pitch. Or with a good solitary bathroom wank.

Simon would run. That's exactly what he needs right now. A good long run.

It settles him.

Maybe I should have him run stairs when we get to Reykjavik. Too late to do that here.

We finally make our way to the plane and find our seats. First class, business class, whatever it's called on this flight, is a less than overwhelming experience. As expected, the seats are side by side, wider and plusher than usual but certainly not the reclining comfort of the pods that First Class on British boasts.

The attention from the flight attendants however is immediate and focused. Simon and I are instantly whisked to our seats by the statuesque blonde crew member. She sets out a bowl of crisps on the wide armrest between our seats and takes drink orders as soon as we settle ourselves.

Her attention to me is faultlessly polite but perfunctory. It's Simon she can't keep her eyes off of. She's all smiles with him, leaning down so her face is on a level with his.

Her cleavage is also.

He is completely unperturbed by it. It's the bowl of chips he's glaring at as if he's personally affronted by them. I've never seen him so discomfited by a snack food.

"It's not like you to turn up your nose at a snack, Simon."

He continues staring balefully at the chips and then frowns up at me. "It's not the snack."

I settle back in my seat. It's comfortable, I'll give it that, even if the armrest separating me from Simon is distressingly massive. I tilt my head to look at him. "Then what is it?"

He doesn't answer, just squirms in his seat.

"You alright, Simon?"

He continues to frown, still not answering me. He swivels around to stare down the aisle, back towards the economy section. The flight attendant has curtained it off already.

He fidgets for a few moments more then pushes himself out of the seat. "I'll be right back."

I nod, expecting him to make his way to the bathroom up front but he heads to the back instead. He'll figure it out soon enough. I lean my head back and console myself with the fact that I'll at least be able to hold Simon's hand. It's more contact than I would have had in a real first class cabin.

Simon's back a short while later, more animated than when he left.

"Baz."

"Yes?"

He starts squirming again. What is with him and his bladder? I'd expected to be distracted but it's going to be frankly irksome if he continues like this for the next few hours.

"Erm . . . how much of a surcharge was there for these seats?"

Blast him. He can't be fussing about this again. "Simon, we've been through this—"

He interrupts me. "I know. I'm just wondering how much, yeah?"

"Not an excessive amount. Certainly not what I would have paid for the upgrade on British." I sigh. "These were the only seats left. It didn't matter to me what airline, what seats, how long of a layover. I only cared that there were two seats together, to London."

His face lights up and he stills. Simon reaches for my hand and tangles his warm fingers with my cold ones. "So, you would have been fine in economy?"

"I told you. I would have been fine with anything, as long as it would get us home."

"Good. I'll talk to the attendant."

"What?"

"You said you don't care where we sit. Much as I appreciate you spending the extra money to get these seats, they're a bit shit, aren't they? Compared to other first class accommodations?"

I don't know what he's getting at. Simon's got no idea what first class seats are like. I know for a fact he'd never flown anywhere before this trip. He told me that the other night. "True, but that didn't matter. I said that before. I actually prefer this." I throw all caution to the wind at his questioning look. I can't embarrass myself any further than I already have today. "If we were in first on British you'd be miles away from me, in your own little pod." I bounce our linked hands gently on the objectionable armrest separating us. "Even with this monstrosity in the way, at least we're closer here."

I can feel my face heating up. Simon is beaming at me. "That's alright then. Let's surprise some poor sods in economy and switch seats."

"What?"

"Switch seats."

"Why on earth would we do that?"

"Economy's got seats together with an armrest thingy that goes up. I checked."

"You want to be crammed into a three-seat row for the duration?" I don't understand what he's getting at.

The ridiculous muppet just shrugs. Simon can conduct entire conversations with shrugs.

"You're serious?" I'm utterly perplexed.

He nods. "It's a two-three-two."

"It's a what?" I sound like an absolute git.

"Two-three-two. The seats I mean. It'd be just the two of us. Aisle and a window. Probably get some blokes to switch. They'd get more room and we'd not have to worry about this blasted thing keeping us so far apart."

The advent of that dratted flight attendant coming over to ogle Simon again hastens my decision. I don't need to think it over. "Right. Economy it is."

It takes a few moments to convince the flight attendant. She quite obviously thinks we're stark raving mad to pass up the wider seats and her scintillating company. But Simon is resolute and she wilts in the face of his determination.

Moments later the tall bloke who tried to chat me up in the lounge and another bloke who could be his twin follow her into the first class compartment. Simon gives him a frosty look as he sweeps past and drags me by the hand into the economy cabin.

The flight attendant's expression is cheerful as she guides them to their new seats. I don't think she's going to be too happy with her choice in the long-term.

Simon marches us halfway down the plane to the two vacant seats. He fusses with his rucksack and I manage to squeeze my bag into the overhead compartment. I slide into the window seat and Simon takes the aisle.

He flings back the armrest between us as soon as he buckles in. "That's a damn sight better." He takes my hand and presses his shoulder to mine. A moment later his head drops onto my shoulder.

Simon's right. This is bloody perfect.

**Simon**

Baz smells just the same as he did at Watford. I've got my head resting on his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and I'm just breathing him in.

It's such a comforting, familiar scent.

I'd moved into a flat with Penny soon after we graduated. It was odd having my own room after so many years of sharing one with Baz. It was nice not getting growled at on a daily basis but it was oddly isolating too.

I noticed all the noises at night. The cars outside, the creaking of the pipes, the footsteps in the flat above. It made it hard to sleep. All those sounds were so unfamiliar and disconcerting.

It had always been so quiet in our room at school. Neither of us talked much and at night the only sound was the hushed whisper of Baz breathing.

I missed that.

I bought a white noise machine. It helped mask the other sounds but I still had trouble falling asleep.

I'd found the candle at a shop about six weeks later. I'd been caught in the rain and I'd ducked into a shop to stay dry. Ended up being one of those stores that sold scented lotions and candles and whatnot. It smelled heavenly. I wandered about a bit, trying to make it look like I was shopping and not just hiding out from the storm.

I'd pick up a candle, sniff it thoughtfully, then put it back. Test a bit of lotion on the back of my hand. Wander around a bit more.

And then the scent hit me. That familiar scent. Stopped me in my tracks, it did. I sniffed around a bit, found the right candle and breathed it in.

Bought it. Brought it home. Put it in my room. It didn't hit me until I was in bed that night, basking in the soft glow of the candle on my nightstand, why the scent was so familiar.

It smelled like our room. It smelled like _Baz_.

Shrugged it off. It wasn't _him _I missed. It was Watford. That scent was something that had inextricably been associated with my memories of that place. Of the safety and comfort of my room.

Penny came into my room a few days later. "What the devil, Simon?"

"What?"

"It smells just like your old room." She narrowed her eyes at me. "It smells just like Baz, that shampoo or cologne or whatnot he used to use."

"Does it? I wondered why it smelled so familiar. I bought it the other day, when it rained. Just grabbed it off the shelf at that posh little shop by the tube station. Had to buy something so they wouldn't think I was just loitering to stay out of the rain." That was all bollocks on my part. I'd been babbling and Penny had given me an oddly penetrating stare but then she'd just shaken her head and walked out.

I tried not to think about it. But I slept better after I bought that candle.

I still have one in my room.

I think I may finally be able to admit why.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**Baz**

I don't think I've ever been happier to be in a cramped economy seat. I'm reveling in it. I'm basking in the notion that Simon had us moved because he wanted us to be closer to one another.

Which we are. He pushed the armrest up out of the way almost as soon as he was seated. He's leaning up against me, the warmth of his body soaking into mine, his head resting on my shoulder.

I think he's nuzzling my neck.

"'M glad you still smell like this."

"What?" I keep saying that today. I'm almost sure I've tumbled into some alternate dimension where Simon actually craves my companionship and I'm incapable of articulate speech.

He nudges my shoulder, face still buried in my neck. "You smell the same. As you did at school. I always liked it."

My heart thumps in my chest. I think it's these small admissions, more than the kissing even, that make me concede this is real. I'd never have had the audacity to dream these up.

I've answered more than my fair share of questions today, most of them inadvertently. I have a few of my own for Simon. I'm not sure I'm as brave as he is about asking them though.

I rub circles on the back of his hand with my thumb. I like everything about this seating arrangement. The way his leg is pressed against mine, how he's leaning into me, the way our fingers intertwine.

Christ, did he just kiss me?

He's trailing kisses just below my ear, in the middle of a crowded flight. My eyes dart over his head to look around, but no one is paying us any mind. It probably just looks like Simon's passed out on my shoulder. I should . . . I don't know what I should do.

I close my eyes and let my head tilt back. I'm should just let myself enjoy it, I think.

**Simon**

He tenses for a moment and I wonder if he's going to pull away. But then Baz sighs ever so softly and lets his head fall back. I can't help smiling against his skin as I feel the tension seep out of him.

This is more like it.

I let my lips skim down his neck, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the racing of his pulse against my mouth.

I wonder if this counts as distraction.

**Baz**

The arrival of the drink cart puts a stop to Simon's exploration of that surprisingly sensitive spot behind my left ear.

Probably a good thing. I was ready to grab his face and snog him senseless. I've lost all sense of self-control when it comes to him. Too many years of pent-up longing.

Simon doesn't let go of my hand when he lifts his head to give his order to the steward. I miss the solid weight of him on my shoulder instantly.

There are snacks, so his attention is instantly diverted to the little packet of Biscoff cookies the steward hands him. I don't know how Simon does it but somehow he manages to get two for himself from the drink cart bloke. I narrow my eyes at the man, but he's already moving down the aisle.

I can be as territorial as Simon, it seems.

"I love these." He's already torn into the first packet and a small shower of crumbs drifts over his shirt, the tray table and my arm. Simon crumples the empty packet and starts in on his second one. I watch, because I can now. His Adam's apple bobs in that familiar way and I'm mesmerized by the sight of it.

I notice a crumb at the edge of Simon's lip and I want to lick it off. Christ, I'm pathetic.

He turns to grin at me and it's typical Simon—lopsided smile, food stuck in his teeth, that crumb precariously perched on his lip. I can't help myself. I lean in and kiss him (just a brush of lips to his cheek) (I don't want the remains of his biscuit in my mouth) (I don't lick the crumb off) (I still want to).

He grins even more, and then his eyes settle on the lonely biscuit packet on my tray table. "You going to eat that?"

"You are incorrigible."

"You like me anyway." His face moves closer.

I most certainly do. I've been hopelessly in love with this idiot for almost a decade, and for the first time I don't feel anything but elation at the thought.

A part of me is still frightfully mortified that he knows. But mostly I'm so fucking relieved at not having to conceal my regard for him anymore.

It was exhausting. Soul-crushing. Heart-breaking every single time I would think one thing in my head and then force myself to say an awful thing instead. Every time I would want to reach out to comfort him and make myself walk out of the room instead.

Simon squeezes my fingers. "It can't take that much mental effort to decide if you want to share your biscuits with me." He waggles his eyebrows in an utterly ludicrous fashion. He's spent years trying to lift his brow at me and it always ends up looking ridiculous.

I love it.

"Oh, fine, take them then, if you must, you insatiable muppet."

He waggles his eyebrows again, but it looks far more suggestive this time. "I'll share them with you."

I'd share anything with him.

**Simon**

I don't actually mean to eat all of Baz's biscuits, but I do.

He just rolls his eyes at me. "Typical." But there's a smile on his face when he says it. I'm not used to Baz being all soft. I like it, don't get me wrong. It's just a bit jarring still. This Baz though, the one who's sharp _and _soft, his edges blunted but still keen? I could . . . I could fall pretty hard for him.

I have fallen hard for him. I know it's fast—forty-eight hours and then some—but when you've known someone for half your life, when their face, their mannerisms, their moods, are as familiar as your own? It's less falling hard and more recognizing that I've been probably been into him for far longer than I care to admit.

Which brings me to the questions still lingering in my head. I'm thick enough that I only really came to terms with it the other day (probably in denial for far longer) (I just don't like to think about things that perplex me).

Baz has known for a long time. I suppose I understand why he never said anything. I mean, I was dating Agatha. And I pretty much told everyone I hated him. Told him too.

He said it back, the wanker, even if he didn't mean it. Maybe he did mean it. Maybe he hated me for hating him. I don't know. I should just ask him.

How awkward would that be? No. I can't really ask.

I want to.

I'm not going to ask.

So of course, I ask.

"Baz."

"Yes?"

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

He presses his lips together. He's not even going to pretend he doesn't know what I'm talking about. It's this kind of behaviour that really throws me off. I know how to pester him, prod him, annoy the fuck out of him. But I'm a bit at a loss when he reads me so easily and follows my train of thought without even trying.

Baz sighs, closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "What would I have said, Simon? You were straight, last I knew, in love with the most beautiful girl at school, and you absolutely loathed me. Telling you would have served no purpose. You probably would have thrown _me _down the stairs."

"I would not."

"You say that now. I don't know what you would have done, honestly, and I was too cowardly to risk finding out. It was easier to pine in private and aggravate you in public."

I don't really know what to say to that.

Baz's grey eyes are on me now and that crease is back on his forehead. The one I want to smooth away with my fingertips. Or my lips. Either. Both.

His fingers grip tightly to mine as his eyebrows draw even closer together. "When. . . how . . ." He stops, tilts his head back and groans. "I cannot believe I'm unable to string a single sentence together." He mutters the words but I'm close enough to hear them.

I lean closer still, press my leg against his in solidarity. "What?"

"When the fuck did you stop being straight?"

Ah. I'd been expecting that. I'm not really sure of the answer myself.

It's not something I actively thought about when I was at Watford. I mean, I thought about sex, of course, but not so much about my sexuality. I knew that things were ok with Agatha, that I loved her but not perhaps the way I'd always envisioned I should.

Intimacy felt awkward, forced. Not for lack of trying, but for lack of follow-through. Or passion, I suppose. It felt nice to cuddle, to kiss her, to have someone to hold. But neither of us ever pushed past that.

I missed that, when we broke up. I missed having someone to be with that way. Penny's my best friend, and she's a first-rate hugger, but it's not the same.

I tried not to think about it at uni. Schoolwork doesn't come as easily to me as it does to Penny. Or Baz. I needed to keep my focus on that. But I couldn't help the fact that I was noticing people. Girls, yes.

But men too.

I mean, I've always had an appreciation for fit blokes, but I never really stopped to think through what that might mean. And then I found my gaze drawn to a bloke second year at uni. Fit. Tall. Darkhaired.

Yeah, he reminded me a bit of Baz. I can admit that now. Not as smart. Not as funny. But still enough to capture my attention.

Figured out kissing a guy's not that different from kissing a girl. Fumbled around a bit. But nothing serious. Nothing long term. Not the time or inclination for that.

Baz is still staring at me and I realize I haven't answered him.

"Second year at uni, I think. I mean, I might have had an idea before then but I didn't really think about it."

There's a tension that goes out of him with my words. "You didn't know at Watford then?"

I shake my head. "Nah. Maybe that I had an inclination, but I didn't let myself dwell."

"Dwell? Dwell on what?"

On the way his fucking shampoo smelled. How he'd lift his jersey to wipe the sweat off his forehead on the football pitch. The way he looked so soft for those brief moments before he fully came awake in the morning.

The examples fill my mind. How the fuck did I not realize this years ago?

Fuck. I was such an idiot. You don't have thoughts like that if you don't fancy someone.

"On you, you wanker." Baz's eyes widen at my words. "On the way your hair would fall just so on your forehead." I keep thinking of more. It's like a dam of ideas has burst open in my brain. An entire list of things about Baz that I find endlessly fascinating. "How fucking graceful you were on the pitch." Fuck it all. "The scent of you."

His lips quirk up at the corners. "You couldn't have let me in on this back then? We've wasted quite a few years here."

"Don't remind me," I snap. I'm not mad at him. I'm exasperated with myself. I'd tamped this all down, shut it away, until Ebb's words had brought me up short.

"It's alright." Baz's voice is soft. "You figured it out eventually, didn't you?"

"That I did. Better late than never I suppose."

Baz pulls me towards him and presses his forehead to mine. "Much better."

**Baz**

I'd frozen for an instant, when Simon was speaking. I'd been paralyzed by the thought that he'd known when he was at Watford too. That I'd fucked it all up royally by being such a prick to him back then.

I did fuck it up by being a prick at school but it chilled me to consider he might have had feelings for me back then and I'd driven him off with my angst-ridden shitty coping mechanisms. Not that I'm letting myself off the hook for being a right arse all those years, but at least I didn't break his heart.

I let him break mine.

But I don't care. It's worth the misery of those years to have this now. I wouldn't have known how to cope if he'd returned my feelings then. I'd have fucked it up somehow, knowing me.

I came out eighth year, not because I really wanted to but because I needed to let Wellbelove know there was no chance of there ever being an "us." I couldn't lead her on like that. It wasn't fair.

I wanted to let her down gently, to let her know that it was me, not her. Honesty was the kindest option. It was more considerate than humiliating her by shunning her affections publicly. She didn't deserve that.

I can't imagine how things might have been if Simon had made his realization earlier. I won't. It's pointless to go down the 'what if' rabbit hole. I'm eternally grateful for a second chance and mildly surprised I haven't found a way to fuck it up yet.

I wrap my arm around Simon's waist and lean against the window, pulling him so his body rests on my chest. He leans back into me, his head falling onto my shoulder again. It feels so natural to have him there. I kiss his bronze curls and breathe in the scent of him.

"I've never been so fucking grateful for shit weather." I whisper the words into his hair. I can just glimpse the smile on his face. I rest my head on his and feel his body relax into mine.

I'm not sure which one of us falls asleep first.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Simon**

I'm not sure if it's the pilot's voice that wakes me or the subtle shifting of Baz's position. Doesn't matter. I blink my eyes a few times to clear the sleep and raise my head from his shoulder.

Fuck. I've drooled on Baz's shirt.

Not a lot, mind you, but there's still a small spot of it right below his collarbone.

He doesn't seem to have noticed. Baz rolls his shoulders and rotates his neck to get the kinks out, and I'm completely mesmerized by the sight. He raises one eyebrow at me. "Do I have something on my face?"

I shake my head. My mouth is dry but I manage to mumble some words out. "No, I just can't figure out how you can look so fucking perfect after sleeping on a plane."

I like it when Baz smiles. I like everything about him, but I rarely saw him smile like this at Watford. Smirk or sneer, yes, but a genuine smile like the one he's giving me now? Hardly.

I can't help but grin back at him.

I poke at my drool stain on his shirt. "I seem to have mucked you up a bit, though."

Baz glances down at it and then rolls his eyes at me. "Eternal mouth breather. Some things never change."

I shake my head. "I must look a fright."

He reaches out and pushes a curl off my forehead. "You are a mess, Simon. A glorious fucking catastrophe." His smile is even wider and his cool fingertips trail down my face.

"And you like that?"

"I love it."

"Why?"

Baz leans closer, hand cupping my face. "Because we match."

His lips brush mine before I can respond. I'm distracted for the moment but when he pulls back I frown at him. "You're the furthest thing from a mess, Baz. You're bloody flawless. You always have been. Drove me stark raving mad, it did."

It's his turn to frown. "I'm not. Not in the slightest."

"What, you expect me to believe it's all been a front? No one's that good at faking it, Baz."

"Perhaps I am."

His expression closes off and I'm kicking myself now. I know this about him. I know how he retreats when any sign of weakness is exposed. He just admitted something deeply personal to me, something important, and I fucked it up by answering that way.

I take his hand.

It takes a moment for his fingers to grip mine back. "Hey. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." I sigh. I may as well keep going, now that I've put my foot in it. "You've just always been the epitome of perfection to me, Baz. I'm a walking disaster, always have been—you know that. But you … you made it all look so effortless—schoolwork, football, grace and refinement, brilliant banter, striking good looks. It made me … made me feel … well, quite stunningly inadequate, I suppose."

His eyes blaze. The look Baz gives me is as fiery as any of our altercations at school. "No, Simon. You couldn't be more wrong. You're a brilliant cataclysm. A fucking supernova." His fingers squeeze mine hard. I hold my breath at the intensity of his gaze. "You were the sun, and I was crashing into you. If I managed to get too close I'd be incinerated. But trying to stay out of your orbit left me so cold." He's so close I can see the blues and greens of his eyes clearly now. "I was always on the outside, looking in. Never good enough to be part of your inner circle. Never brave enough to be your friend."

"But …" I falter. I have no idea what to say. It's dislocating to hear him say such things. We've eased into this physical closeness in a matter of days but there is so much we don't know, don't understand, about each other.

I do understand one thing. And it's not something he gets a say in. Because it's how I feel, how I've always felt about him, even when he was a thorn in my side, an epic arsehole, my absolute nemesis.

My singular obsession.

"You're fucking perfect to me, you twat. Always have been. You can think whatever stupid bloody thoughts you want, but you can't change my mind on this." My voice softens as I reach out to curl a wisp of his hair around my finger. "You could be a bloody train wreck, Baz Pitch, but you'd still leave me breathless."

His gaze relaxes and he tilts his head. I let my fingers cup his jaw and he leans into my touch. "How do you do it, Simon? How do you always know exactly what to say that goes to the heart of me?"

I shrug. "I don't think about it, I guess. I just say what I feel."

His lips are on mine, and then he's breathlessly snogging me into the seatback.

It takes a moment for him to come up for air. "I'm not as perfect as you think. But, Christ, what I'd give to live up to that ideal."

I pull his face to mine. I want him to feel this kiss, this regard I have for him, the protective sense that overwhelms me when I hear him talk this way.

I don't know this side of Baz. This uncertain, relentlessly negative, self-critical side. I don't know what's happened in the four years since we lived together. I don't know if he's always hidden this inside.

It hurts to think about it.

The pilot's voice booms out again. We're veering down for the landing. I pull away, briefly running my thumb along his cheek before I lean back in my seat. "We are not finished with this conversation." I grip the armrest with my left hand and Baz's hand with my right. "But I hate landings. And I can't talk this through with you and keep calm about this bloody plane at the same time."

A smile lights up his face. "I think I can help with that." And then Baz leans over and starts to trace his lips up my neck.

It seems like no time before the wheels hit the tarmac and the plane taxis down the runway. I've had my eyes closed the whole time.

I open them to find Baz grinning at me. "Alright then, Simon?"

I swallow. "Pretty effective method you've got there."

**Baz**

We've got a few hours to kill here in Reykjavik before our connection to London heads out. Simon may want to pick up that conversation where we left off but I'm a master of deflection and redirection.

It doesn't work with this wanker though. He knows my tactics too well.

We're seated in the First-Class Lounge again. Different airport, similar setup. Simon has demolished another shockingly large pile of food with a swiftness that is astonishing. It's not as if the buffet is going to magically disappear any minute, but he's been focused on shoveling the food down nonetheless. It's been quite absorbing to watch.

But he's finished eating now and fixing me with a penetrating stare. "Now, about that bollocks on the plane."

"I've no idea what you're referring to."

"Yes, you do, you prat. You know exactly what I'm referring to. The hypercritical shite. That negativity."

It is impossible to distract and divert a Sociology major who's made a special study of this sort of thing. I'm internally cursing the discipline as a whole and Simon in specific. But he's patient and he's kind and I'm pathetically weak for him, so I find myself opening up far more than I ever intended.

It comes out. Bit by bit. My mother's legacy. The way it's loomed over me my whole life. The survivor's guilt that eats at me. The fear of disappointing the one parent I have left. The numbing misery of day in, day out at a job that sucks the very life from me. The isolation I feel in New York.

The crippling self-doubt that I am never going to get it right. Not with work, not with my family, not with the life choices I make.

Not even with Simon. That bit I keep to myself.

He listens, taking it all in, encouraging me with a word or gesture, a touch that grounds me. He's so fucking good at this. They definitely aren't paying him enough at that care home.

I'm spent by the time I finish, certain that this, if nothing else, will cause him to write me off as a bad deal and disappear from my life as soon as we reach London.

Simon slides his arm around my waist instead and leans his head on my shoulder. "You were right. You're as much of a fucking disaster as I am."

I stiffen at his words but he only laughs. "Relax, you numpty. I happen to like disasters. They're comforting and familiar. Especially brilliant ones, like you."

I do relax against him. I don't know when I've felt this at peace. Simon's warm and comforting and nothing I've said has deterred him in the slightest.

This is all too fucking good to be true.

**Simon**

It's heart-breaking to hear him. I'll never let that on though. Baz's got himself so tightly wound, trying to be everything for everyone, striving to reach expectations that are unrealistic, so much so that he's ignoring the person who actually matters most—himself.

His father wouldn't want him to put himself through this. I may not know his family well but his Aunt Fiona always doted on him—in a brusque, profanity-laden, bitterly sarcastic kind of way but you could see her heart was in the right place. Mostly.

They likely aren't privy to any of this. There is no way they would let him burn himself out in New York like this, burden himself with an existence that stifles him so, if they knew.

I'm sure of it.

I just need to figure out how to get him to realize that and tell them when he's home.

I've no idea how I'm going to manage that.

But I'm damn well going to try.

**Baz**

Our flight departs in less than an hour.

It's a shorter one this time. We'll be in London in just under three hours. I should be home in time for Christmas dinner.

I'll be saying goodbye to Simon in three hours.

I don't want to. Now that I've found him I don't want to let him out of my sight. That's mad, obviously. But I still can't help wanting it.

I know I have his number in my mobile. I know I can call him, text him anytime. I can make plans to see him again before I go back to New York. I can Skype. There are a million things I can do to stay in touch and none of them seem enough at the moment.

There is one more thing I can do, something to put off saying goodbye for just a little bit longer. I've been thinking about it since before we left Ebb's. I turned the idea around in my head the entire drive to Washington.

Simon's alone for the holiday. He mentioned that the first night. All I have to do is ask him to come home with me for Christmas.

Thinking about it is the easy part. It's the asking that's a challenge.

I don't quite know what I'll do if he says no.

**Simon**

Baz is a stickler for punctuality. Always has been. Some things never change. We arrive at the gate early, no sign of a boarding queue yet. We could have stayed in the lounge a bit longer.

It's nice, the lounge. This trip is likely the first and last time I'm going to travel in such luxury.

I spot a lavatory across from the gate. I bump Baz's arm. "I'm going to the lav."

"I'll be expecting your cultural commentary on the local facilities on your return." I know that sardonic tone but the grin that accompanies it is only now growing more familiar.

"Sod off." I can hear Baz laughing as I walk away.

The lavatory actually looks like it came out of an IKEA catalog. I think IKEA's Swedish actually but the effect is very much the same. Shiny white porcelain, posh looking fixtures. Each toilet's got it's own little counter and sink. It's bigger than the entire bathroom in my current flat.

That's not saying much. My flat's tiny.

Fuck.

The toilet must have some electronic sensor thingy. It flushed as soon as I walked into the stall and I swear it's flushed at least five times already. It's unnerving, it is. I feel like I should apologize to someone for all the water it's wasting.

The sink's got this posh, artsy looking faucet. It looks like some modern minimalist sculpture of an aeroplane. That's kind of cute for an airport. It must have electronic sensors too, because as soon as my hands get close to it a stream of warm water gushes out. Soap too.

Where the fuck are the hand towels? There's nothing on the walls, no dispenser, no hand dryer. I flail about for a bit, even coming out of the stall to look at the main sink area. All the faucets there have the same design but I can't for the life of me find anything to dry my hands.

I run them under the water one more time, to splash my face, thinking I'll just have to wipe my hands on my jeans (points taken away for that inconvenience) when twin blasts of hot air shoot down from the side wings of the faucet.

Scares the fuck out of me, it does.

The sodding faucet has an integrated automated hand dryer. It would be cool if it didn't take me so bloody long to figure it out.

And if it hadn't made me jump. I'm glad I'm the only one in here. I must have looked like a complete knobhead. Thank the stars Baz didn't come in with me. He'd be laughing his arse off.

He's leaning against a pillar when I come out, tapping away at his mobile. "I can hold your satchel if you need to go."

He tilts his head. "You're not going to give me the rundown of the amenities then? Lavatories as windows into cultural norms and what not?"

I decide then and there I'm not telling him a thing about the toilets. Let him figure out the stealth hand dryer on his own.

"It'll make more sense to discuss the cultural significance after you've used the lav. I'll hold your bag."

Baz hands over his satchel and saunters across the corridor. He's just walking to an airport toilet and he still looks like he could be on the runway at fashion week, the tosser. So bloody poised and posh.

**Baz**

I broke down and texted Father while Simon was in the lav. Told him I might be bringing a friend home for Christmas dinner.

His response was alarmingly genial. Daphne texted me a moment later to let me know she was preparing the guest room down the hall from my room. They're both far too excited at the thought of me bringing someone home. It's not like I don't have _friends_. I do.

Dev. Niall. I'm sure there are others I'm forgetting at the moment.

This is different. This is the first time I'm bringing someone I care about, in a romantic way, home with me. It's daunting.

And exhilarating.

Of course, Father and Daphne don't know that. That this is the boy I've been in love with for years.

They're both quite accepting of my queerness. Daphne always asks if I'm seeing someone. She's far more polite about it than Fiona, who usually just asks if I'm getting laid.

I've never dated anyone long enough to have the opportunity to bring them home, if I'd even wanted to in the first place. Home is private. It's my safe place. I've not been in a relationship serious enough to warrant introducing the family.

Simon knows my family. Not well, of course. Our icy coexistence at school meant his introduction to my relations was perfunctory at best.

It won't be now.

I've no concerns about them liking him. It's practically impossible to dislike Simon. Trust me, I tried. My siblings will likely want to adopt him on sight and jettison me.

Not really. They love me, the little hellions. I love them too, even if they routinely pester me to distraction.

Simon though. He's a natural with children. By our third year he was the one who would take on the first years—calmed their insecurities at the back to school picnic, distracted them with stories and games when they would get homesick, organized the inter-class snowball fights in winter.

I can't tell you how many times I'd walk in, at the start of term, to find a small contingent of first-year boys huddled around a board game on the floor of our room, Simon benevolently beaming at the lot of them.

I'd never stay too long. Wouldn't do to have them think I'd gone all soft. Didn't matter that I'd do the same with Mordelia (and later my other siblings as well) when I'd come home for holiday breaks.

Couldn't let the whole world know I had a heart.

I just need to summon up the nerve to ask Simon.

I'm so distracted thinking about it that when the invisible automated hand dryer built into the faucet blasts into existence it startles me so much that I literally recoil from the sink.

I'm glad I didn't come in here with Simon. He'd never let me live that down.

I take comfort in the fact that it likely scared the devil out of him too.

**Simon**

The queue forms as I wait for Baz. I wonder if this flight has the same kind of first-class seats as the previous one. I'll be damned if I spend my last three hours with him with a blasted armrest between us.

I know it's not literally the last three hours I'll ever spend with Baz, but at the moment the thought of separating from him at all, for who knows how long, makes my outlook on the whole situation bleak.

I don't know what he has planned for his break. I don't want to impose and ask. He's only home for a week and I don't want to intrude on plans with his family. I hope there's a chance I'll get to see him again before he goes back to New York.

It's alright if I don't. He's got my number. I've got his. I'll make do.

Even if I don't particularly want to make do.

It's so fucking inconvenient, now that I've finally sorted my feelings for him, that we're doomed to be separated by a whole bloody ocean. I couldn't have figured this out at some point during the years we roomed together? It would have been a sight more practical.

The perils of not letting myself think about things. That's what Penny would say. She's going to have kittens when I tell her about this. Of course, I'm going to tell her. Penny and I have a no-secrets pact.

She's not going to let me hear the end of this. I just know it.

There's a brush against my elbow. Baz is back. I hand him his satchel. "Queue up, shall we?"

"No need. We're first-class. We'll get to pre-board." He arches an eyebrow. "Unless you've gone and traded in our seat assignments again."

I shake my head. "I've not, but I damn well plan on it, if the seats are anything like the previous ones."

Baz twines the fingers of his free hand with mine. "We'll surprise some deserving pair in Economy, shall we?"

"The last pair wasn't quite what I'd call deserving," I mutter.

He huffs a laugh and pulls me closer. "I'm quite enjoying this possessive streak of yours."

He may as well get used to it. It's not going away anytime soon. I've already caught a few blokes giving him the eye here at the gate and I'm not above glaring at them. Not getting our fucking first-class seats, if I've got anything to say about it.

"I'm still anxiously awaiting your assessment of the facilities, Simon. What cultural tidbits have you acquired?"

I should have known he wouldn't let this go, the wanker. "Obviously a society that prides itself on cleanliness, stark design features, modern amenities." I give him a sidelong glance. "It looked like a fucking IKEA display in there."

"Wrong culture. This is Iceland. IKEA's Swedish."

"Did you get blasted by the hidden hand dryer?" The startled look in his eyes gives it away. "You did!"

"I was momentarily distracted."

"Bollocks. It got you too, you posh twat." I'm literally crowing with satisfaction. It's not often anything catches Baz unawares. That must have been a sight to see.

"Oh shut it, you nightmare. You're the one assessing an entire nation by the state of their toilets."

"I told you. You learn a lot about a place from toilets."

**Baz**

I'm literally dragging my feet towards the boarding area. Each step takes me one moment closer to the end of this adventure with Simon.

I need to figure out how to ask him to come home with me.

When should I ask? I'm tempted to ask him right now but it would make the flight tremendously awkward if he said no. He wouldn't say no, would he?

Would he?

I don't know. I'd like to think not. But then again, he'll be tired and jet-lagged, likely craving the comfort of his flat, cramped though it may be, rather than enduring the company of strangers for the day.

I'll ask him when we get to London.

**Simon**

I'm checking out the other passengers at the gate, seeking out likely candidates for the surprise upgrade to our first-class seats. There are a few likely candidates so far. A young couple, an elderly pair, a harried looking mom with a whiny toddler. Any of them would do. As long as they're seated in a two-person section. I fully intend to snuggle up to Baz and take any and every opportunity to snog him. Preferably in the kind of privacy we had on the last leg of this trip.

As expected, the first-class seats are the same as before. I speak to the flight attendant and explain my request. He gives me the same odd look the woman on the last flight gave me but then something softens in his expression as he looks us over and takes in our still clasped hands.

"The armrest is a bit of a barrier, isn't it?" He says it kindly, with an amused look in his eyes.

I nod, flushing a bit at his instant comprehension of the situation.

"Alright if I just pop through to Economy for a moment and check out a likely seat switch?"

He gestures to the curtain at the far end of our section.

It doesn't take me a minute to find the seats I want. The mum with the toddler looks exhausted, worn out and near tears. They're seated on the left, a window and aisle combo that mimics what we had before.

That's it then.

I tell the flight attendant and he makes short work of the matter. The mother's face is incredulous as he brings her to our seats. The little boy's tears are still drying on his face, but he's taking it all in silently now.

Baz and I wave away her words of gratitude and I tell her she's the one doing us a favor. She's got a sense of humour it seems, because she responds that she's sure the rest of Economy feel we're doing them a favour, by taking her cranky offspring out of their orbit. She leans in to whisper "I'm not sure this lot will be quite as happy to have us in their midst." She nods at the dark-suited businessmen who surround us.

Baz winks at her. "I think it's quite what they deserve."

We're in our seats shortly, the pilot's voice already starting the pre-flight commentary as we buckle in.

It's Baz who flips the armrest up this time, taking my hand and pulling me close. I drop my head on his shoulder. It feels like it belongs there.

I sense the brush of his lips in my hair. "We're almost home, Simon." There's a wistfulness to his tone and I'm excessively gratified to hear it.

I think Baz wants this day to end as little as I do.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Baz**

It's going too fast. Every minute is passing too quickly. I can't even let myself savor it.

Well, I'm savoring the sensation of Simon in my arms. The warm weight of him resting against me. The scent of him. Like bacon and freshly baked cinnamon rolls. Something I'd gladly eat.

Neither of us bothered to sleep on this leg of the trip. I think we both sense our time together is drawing to a close. There's no point wasting it napping.

Not when we can be cuddling and surreptitiously snogging instead. It's mostly forehead kisses and brushing my lips through his curls when he buries his face in my neck this time.

It's not any less romantic or passionate. It's just softer, slower, a cherishing of every memory I'm making with him so I can revisit them all later, when he's not by my side anymore.

I've not asked him to come home with me yet. I keep meaning to, and then I just can't find the words.

It should be easy. _"Would you like to come home with me for Christmas, Simon?" _really shouldn't be that hard to articulate. I'm being a coward.

We're making our final descent to London now and I'm making sure Simon is adequately distracted. I'm careful not to leave a mark on his neck. If I'm bringing him home to meet my parents I can't quite have him show up looking like the victim of a vampire attack, now can I?

The plane taxis to the gate but neither of us rush to stand up. I'm holding Simon's hand and he's gazing at me, blue eyes warm and comforting, but there's something wistful there too.

I should ask him now. I'm just about to speak when he looks away and gives a small laugh. "We should probably get off the plane, we're practically the only ones left." Simon's hand slips out of mine to unbuckle his belt, then he stands, shouldering his pack. "Come on, then, Baz. You're going to make it for Christmas dinner with your family after all."

It's the perfect opening so I trample down my apprehension and just blurt it out, none of the artfully worded invitations I had rehearsed in my head coming to me now.

"Come with me."

Simon tilts his head, eyebrows coming together in question. I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder, and take his hand in mine again. "Come home with me, I mean. For Christmas." I swallow. "Please?"

His eyes widen. It would be comical, how astonished he looks, if I wasn't wracked with apprehension about his answer. I tighten my grip on his hand, my words having left me for good it seems. Why should it be so surprising that I want to keep him with me?

"It's your family, Baz. I … I shouldn't … I wouldn't want to intrude." He's just saying that. I know he's just saying that. I couldn't have been imagining that spark of interest just now.

I move closer to him. We're jammed together in the narrow aisle, the flight attendant at the far end of the aeroplane giving us a quizzical look. The cleaning crew has already boarded at the front. I don't care. They can sod off. This is more important.

"You wouldn't be intruding. I want you there." I close my eyes and drop my head. I have no shame left in me. I've confessed so many secrets to him today, what's one more? "I may have already told my stepmother I was bringing someone home."

I love the way Simon laughs. The way his nose scrunches up when he does, the deep-throated rumble of it. I don't think I could ever tire of hearing it.

"You daft git. You decided to wait until practically the last minute to ask me?"

"Well, I could have waited until we reached the ground transport area but I thought that would be pushing it a bit."

He drops my hand in favor of cupping my face with both of his. He's so close I can feel his breath ghost over my lips. "Well, when you put it that way, how could I say no? Can't disappoint your stepmum now, can I?"

The smile on his face dazzles me. The warmth of his gaze envelops me and all my trepidation melts away. "No, not when she's already made up the spare room and all."

He laughs again, then reaches down to grip my hand once more to tug me down the aisle to the exit.

Heathrow is deserted. The Christmas decorations sparkle and gleam around us as we walk through the terminal hand in hand to reach the bus transport. "There's no easy way to get home from here, not without a car." I give Simon a side-long look. "This adventure of ours wouldn't be quite complete without some time on buses and trains, don't you think?"

"The company's tolerable so I suppose I'll survive it somehow." He's grinning at me.

It takes a few minutes to find the bus to Woking. Once we make our way there we'll catch the train to Alton. Father's offered to collect us from there.

It's quite decent of him. I'd offered to hire a taxi from the station but he wouldn't hear of it. _"You've suffered enough of the vagaries of public transport, Basilton. I'm sure you'll both be exhausted. I'll just meet you at the station, shall I? Text me when you get to Woking. That will give me a chance to get to Alton in time." _

We board the bus and Simon insists on taking the window seat. "You get cold too easily, let me sit there." He slides in and I follow, dropping my satchel at our feet and leaning my head back with a sigh. He nudges my shoulder. "Almost there, Baz. Almost there."

We spend the ride talking about my family. Simon's met Father, Daphne and Fiona, thanks to our shared accommodations at school, but this will be the first time he meets my siblings.

"Four? You can't be serious? You've got four siblings?"

I tick them off on my fingers. "Mordelia, Acantha, Ophelia, and Magnus. Be warned. Mordelia is full of snark and attitude. She's twelve going on twenty-five. Jaded and bitter for her age."

"Wonder where she gets that from?" Simon says smugly.

I bump his shoulder. "Hush. I'm giving you useful information here. Don't interrupt with slanderous commentary." I press my knee against his and then leave it there. I like the sensation of our legs touching. "Ophelia and Acantha are twins and they adore confusing people. Knowing them, they'll have chosen to wear matching outfits just so they can bewilder you. The giveaway will be Acantha tucking her hair behind her left ear. Watch for that and you'll confound them."

"And your brother?"

"Stop interrupting, you nightmare. I'm getting to him. Magnus will either hide behind me for the entirety of the evening and then demand you tell him bedtime stories or he'll cling to you from the start and you'll be pressed into service giving him piggy-back rides down the halls after dinner." I take his hand again. "Far better you than me. I'm sure he's heavier than he was in the summer."

"They sound brilliant."

I roll my eyes. "How could I forget–you actually _enjoy _interacting with children."

He laughs again. "From the sound of it, so do you. Not that you'd ever let on, though, you numpty."

His face grows more serious a moment later. "Baz. I've just realized. I'm sure your family does the whole posh thing, dressing up for Christmas dinner. Not to sound like a whiny fourteen-year-old girl, but I haven't got a thing to wear." He gestures at his duffel bag.

"Don't worry. I'm sure they aren't expecting us to dress up, considering the time we've had getting here in the first place."

He nods and gives me a meaningful look. "I'd not say no to a shower, mind you. It feels like we left Ebb's ages ago."

It doesn't to me.

To me, this day has been progressing as if someone clicked the fast forward button and hasn't let up.

I glance at my watch. There should be time for us to clean up, once we get home. "I think we can manage that." I drum my fingers on the armrest, as I mentally run through the contents of my wardrobe. "I'm sure you can borrow something of mine to wear. For dinner." I doubt any of my suits will fit him but I'm sure to have a jumper or two that might work.

His eyebrows go up. "I doubt I'll fit any of your posh togs. You've at least three inches on me and I've likely got a stone on you."

I eye him up and down, arch one eyebrow and smirk. "That you do."

"Oh, shut up." He's flushed all the way to the tips of his ears now. I love it.

I drop my head on his shoulder and lean into him. "Solid. I like that."

"I hate you."

"Liar."

He laughs again and rests his head on mine.

I'm not worried about what he wears to dinner. My family will love Simon, even if he wears a hoodie and trackies to the meal.

I love him.

Fuck.

It's true. I've never actually managed to fall out of love, not after all these years. If anything, these past few days have made me fall _even more _in love with him.

I'm so fucked.

And that's when the realization strikes. Daphne and Father know I'm bringing Simon, my former roommate, home. They assume I'm bringing _a friend _home for Christmas. Because that's what I said when I called.

But I'm not really, am I? I'm bringing the boy I love home to meet the family but I'm not quite prepared to make that declaration before the Christmas pudding is served.

Which means all this touching, holding hands, kissing—what do I do about that? I don't particularly want to stop but it's not quite the thing to engage in these types of public displays of affection around my family.

I don't know what to do. I could say something to Simon, I suppose, but that's rubbish, isn't it? It would hurt his feelings, I've no doubt about that.

I could somehow explain to Father and Daphne but that's an excruciating thought in itself. Not just the explaining, but the chance that they'd be frightfully and embarrassingly chuffed about the whole thing.

I'm not sure I could tolerate that.

Christ, is Fiona going to be there tonight?

Under no circumstances am I going to tolerate Fiona making suggestive commentary about Simon in his presence. Or asking if I'm _getting laid_, God forbid.

Right. I should say something to Simon.

But what?

We agreed we're going to try to make a go of this, long-distance. The boyfriend thing.

I can't just tell him we need to stop the snogging. I don't want to stop. Blast it. Why couldn't I be normal, like everyone else, and have actually had a previous boyfriend I brought home? Why do I have to be so fucking awkward?

I've tied myself in knots mentally so of course Simon notices. "What're you thinking so hard about?"

"What? Nothing."

"It's not nothing. You looked pinched. Like you took a bite out of a lemon." I hadn't even realized I'd sat up, hunching forward in concentration. "Baz. What is it?"

I chew on my bottom lip. I've got no idea what to say. I've been tongue-tied more often than not the last few days. It's mortifying.

Simon rubs his hand along my forearm. "Hey. Is it about your parents? And us? I mean, I completely understand. They've only met me a few times and it was usually while I was staring daggers at you. I'm sure it's been awkward enough explaining how we ended up as travel companions. Let alone other _developments_." He gives me a shy smile. "We're just figuring this out ourselves, Baz. There's no need to complicate things by trying to explain it to anyone else quite yet, is there?"

I don't know how he does it. Simon Snow is a mind reader. Either that or I'm frightfully transparent, which is an appalling prospect to consider.

I slump back against the seat. "But I don't want to stop _this."_I wave my arm between us and nearly wince at the whinging tone of my voice. Christ, I'm pathetic.

"We don't have to stop _this_." He emphasizes the word like I did. "But we can certainly be a bit more circumspect about it." He waggles his eyebrows at me. "Surely there's some secret passageway or dimly lit wine cellar in that mansion of yours that we can duck into for a good snog, yeah?"

"I'll have you know my father's wine cellar is state of the art. Nothing dim about it."

"You're impossible, Baz Pitch."

I shake my head. "No, I'm not. You were always my impossible dream, Simon. I'm still a bit overwhelmed by the reality of it all."

"You take the lead, then. I'll go along with whatever feels comfortable. I'm just spending the night. There's no need to give a detailed accounting of our …" he pauses.

"Relationship," I interject. I tug him closer. "That's what we're calling it." Suddenly everything falls into place in my head. I want this. More than I've wanted anything, my whole life. It's not about what anyone thinks or how I explain it. Or even needing to explain it.

It's Simon. And the chance to have not just this moment but all the moments ahead.

**Simon**

I'm glad Baz and I talked a bit. Spending Christmas with him is so much better than spending it alone in my dodgy little flat. I'm a bit nervous about his family, I'll not deny that.

His siblings sound nice. I can manage kids. They don't intimidate me and I know I get on with them. It's Mr. and Mrs. Grimm I'm worried about. They've always been polite, the few times I've met them at school but it's not quite the same thing nodding hello to your son's roommate as it is meeting his boyfriend.

I am his boyfriend. It seems both odd and so entirely right to think of myself that way.

Christ, I wonder if his Aunt Fiona is going to be there? She intimidates me. Completely. I don't think I'd dare even hold Baz's hand in front of her. She wouldn't be one to politely ignore it.

I think of asking him but I let it go. I'll find out when I get there. No use getting myself all worked up before then. I just won't think about it right now.

The train ride is shorter than I expected. I can feel my anxiety ratcheting up as we exit the station. I follow Baz to the platform, my hands in my pockets. I'm not sure meeting Mr. Grimm entwined with Baz is the best idea.

"There he is." Baz points to the parking area, where a black Jaguar is waiting. Mr. Grimm gets out to shake hands with Baz and then he turns to me.

"Hello, Simon. Nice to see you again. It's been awhile."

His handshake is strong. I nod my head. "Nice to see you again too, sir. Thanks for letting me spend Christmas with you."

"You'll have to drop the 'sir', Simon. You're making me feel ancient. Malcolm will do."

"Uh, thank you, sir. I mean Mr. Grimm. I mean …" That's not something I'm going to manage at all. I can't call him by his first name.

He smiles and shakes his head. "Mr. Grimm is fine if that's easier for you."

He's kinder than I expected. I honestly don't know what I expected. He always seemed distant and preoccupied at Watford. That may have had to do more with Baz's mum and his own memories though.

I hadn't thought of that.

Baz takes the front seat and I slide in the back. I hope their house isn't far. I tend to get a bit carsick on long rides.

It's not that far.

And it's not a house. It actually is a fucking Gothic Mansion.

"It's Victorian actually," Baz says. Fuck. I must have said that out loud.

I can't believe Baz lives on a bloody estate. Well, actually I can believe it, knowing him, but the reality of it is a bit daunting. I wonder if it's haunted.

Mr. Grimm drops us off at the front and goes to park the car somewhere. Baz bumps my shoulder so I turn to look at him. "It'll be alright, Simon." His fingers brush against mine and he grips my hand for an instant before opening the door.

We stand in the magnificent foyer for a moment and then I hear the thumping of footsteps and then a flurry of children rush Baz. He staggers then rights himself as he's literally enveloped in a mass of arms and bodies.

I feel a light touch on my arm and turn to find Baz's stepmum next to me. "Hello, Simon. I'm so glad you were able to join us. Baz said you've had an awful time of it getting home."

She's got a gentle voice and a kind face and it makes me relax just a bit. "It's been a bit of adventure, that's for certain." I nod my head in her direction. "Thank you … for having me here …I'm sure it's a spot of bother, having an extra person."

She cuts me off before I can say anything more. "Not at all. I'm glad Basilton convinced you to join us. I think you both need a bit of a rest after all that nonsense with the weather."

She moves to give Baz a kiss on the cheek and I realize the pack of children are now all staring at me.

It's unnerving. They're all so similar and they all have terribly inquisitive expressions on their faces. The tallest one, Mordelia I think Baz said, tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me. "So you're Simon Snow."

"Uh, yes?"

She darts her eyes to Baz and then back to me. "Not quite what I expected but I suppose you'll do."

"Mordelia." Mrs. Grimm and Baz speak at the same time.

Mordelia rolls her eyes at me and links her arm with Baz's. She looks up at him. "Took you long enough to get home. You promised you'd be home for Christmas."

"And I am, you frightful wretch." Baz's words don't match his expression. He's smirking down at her in such a fond way.

"Simon, come with me," Mrs. Grimm touches my arm again. "I'll show you to your room."

She sweeps me away, up the grand staircase at the far end of the foyer. I turn back to look at Baz. He's still surrounded by the little 'uns but his eyes are following me. He nods his head and gives me his most brilliant smile.

It makes me feel all warm, a radiating rush of heat from the affection I can see in his eyes. I'll be alright I think.

I think I'll be alright.

The room is massive. This place must be on some historic register. The bed is a four-poster monstrosity in a dark wood with drapery all around the bed. Everything is in shades of blue in here—the deep blue velvet curtains, the drapery around the bed, the chair by the window. Even the wallpaper. There are portraits of men and women on the walls and a soothing landscape across from the bed. I put my duffel down on the cushioned bench at the end of the bed and turn around to thank Mrs. Grimm.

She waves in the direction of the wardrobe and points down the left hallway for the shower. I nod my head and then she's gone.

I don't even know where to sit. I'm afraid I'll break something. There's delicate knickknacks and candlesticks and whatnot all over. I finally decide to sit on the window seat—it looks solid enough—when the door opens and Baz strides into the room.

He shuts the door behind him and I stand at his approach.

"Hey." Baz's arms are around me. It's the most familiar thing in this place, the feel of him, the scent of him.

"Hey." I slide my arms around his waist. "You didn't tell me you lived in a fucking mansion, you twat. I should have known."

Baz laughs. "I don't think about it that way. It's just home to me." He presses his forehead to mine. "I can show you around a bit, if you like. Or you can take a shower and we can do the tour after dinner."

I feel grimy. "I'd rather take a shower, if that's alright."

Baz nods. "Come to my room first. Let's see if I've got anything for you to wear."

Baz's room is outrageous. It's even larger than the one I've got and there are literally gargoyles carved into the frame of his bed, I swear to God. Dozens of them. Their eyes are unnerving. Makes me shiver, it does.

It's mostly done up in dark reds and burgundies. His room could be right out of Jane Eyre or Dracula or some such gothic nightmare of a book. It's absurd, really.

He laughs at my expression and drags me into a walk-in wardrobe that's wall to wall clothes. Suits and shoes and jumpers and whatnot. Not an item out of place.

No wonder it drove him mad to share a room with me. My side of the room was always a disaster.

He pulls some jumpers off a shelf. "You'll have to make do with your own trousers. I doubt any of mine will fit you, with the height difference." He arches an eyebrow. "I tend to wear them fitted and I don't think they're meant for thighs like yours."

I think I should be offended. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm not fat, you know. Just … sturdy, I suppose."

His grin is almost predatory. "I mean they're thick and muscular and stunning and absolutely not suited to be in my trousers." His grin gets even wider. "At least not that way."

I can feel my cheeks flame. That's about the most suggestive thing he's said to me and it makes me feel tingly, like a rush of fire just below my skin. I need a shower. Preferably a cold one.

Baz fusses with the jumpers for a few moments more, completely oblivious to the effect he's having on me. Or maybe he's just enjoying it.

He tosses a jumper at me. "That one will do." His gaze softens as he looks at me. "It'll bring out the blue of your eyes."

It's a Nordic style, which almost makes me toss it back to him, as I remember the bloke at the airport. But it's soft and I like the color so I just clutch it to me instead. "I should shower."

I grab my toiletries from my room and head to the bathroom down the hall.

My hair is an utter disaster but I'm knocking on Baz's door a short while later, clad in his jumper and the nicest trousers in my bag. They're a bit wrinkled but they'll have to do.

"Come in."

I peek into his room and am met with the magnificent sight of Baz in a dark suit. It looks black from here but as I move closer I see it's a dark green. It highlights his coloring. I can't look away.

"I was right. That color suits you perfectly, Simon. I think you should keep it. It never looked that good on me."

"What?" He's knotting a blood-pink tie and the effect of that with the suit is so mesmerizing I simply can't focus on what he's saying.

Baz turns to face me, which doesn't help with my situation at all. His hair's still a bit damp from showering, curling up at the ends. He's not slicked it back yet. I like it like this. I like it a lot.

"The jumper. You should just keep it. I look a fright in that pale a hue—washes me out completely. I look like the undead."

"You look bloody perfect right now." I've crossed the room to stand directly in front of him.

He tilts his head and there's a soft smile on his face.

I never knew Baz had a soft side. It's one of the astonishing discoveries of this unexpected reunion we've had. It's a precious secret that's rarely revealed. I feel inexplicably fortunate to be one of the lucky few who see this side of him.

Baz reaches up to brush my curls off my forehead. I'm sure I need a haircut.

I swear he's a mind reader. "I like it like this." His fingertips trace a path from my hair to my jawline. "It's longer than when we were at school." He takes a step closer.

"I'm due for a haircut, now that I'm back."

"Don't."

It's my turn to smile. I reach out and wind a strand of his hair around my finger. "I'd say the same about yours. It looks better like this. Loose."

Baz's lips meet mine and my fingers tighten their grasp on his hair. He's pressed up against me and I breathe in the fragrance of his posh shampoo, the aroma of whatever cologne he's put on, the familiar, sensual, arousing scent of _him_.

He wraps his arms around my back to pull me flush to him, bodies in contact from chest to hips. The slide of his tongue against mine drives all other thoughts out of my head. His arms hold me, his scent surrounds me, the taste of him is on my lips, my senses overwhelmed by it all.

Which is probably why neither of us hear the door open.

"Oh my God, I knew you were shagging him!"

The speed at which we spring apart is astonishing. Mordelia is standing in the doorway, arms crossed with a triumphant expression on her face.

"You're supposed to knock!" Baz growls, advancing on her in a surprisingly menacing fashion.

"I did knock. You were obviously too busy snogging Simon to hear me." She raises one eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of him but takes a small step back just the same. "Mother said to tell you it's time for dinner." Mordelia turns her sharp gaze on me then smirks at Baz. "Looks like you've already had your snack."

She makes a run for it before Baz can reach her, the door thudding shut behind her.

"Fucking hell."

"I'm sorry, Baz." I don't know if he's upset at her walking in on us or at the fact that we've just been outed as more than friends. Or both.

He frowns at me. "What are you apologizing for? I'm the one with an absolute maggot of a sibling."

I shrug, giving him an apologetic smile. I'm concerned about him more than anything. How he's taking this. "I shouldn't have let myself get carried away. I promised myself I'd not let your irresistible charms tempt me while I was here." I keep my tone light. I want him to know I'm not fussed about his sister.

He's on me in a heartbeat. "Irresistible charm, now is it?" His hands cradle my face. "That should be my line." He kisses me again, all warmth and affection, not the simmering passion of a few moments ago.

My stomach rumbles audibly. Baz pulls back and shakes his head at me, a hint of amusement visible in his eyes. "I suppose I should get my boyfriend down to dinner."

His hand slides down my arm until his fingers intertwine with my own and that's how we make our way down the stairs to the formal dining room for dinner—hand in hand.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Simon**

We get to the dining room entrance and my palms start to sweat. Mr. and Mrs. Grimm have been nothing but polite to me so far but I'm still nervous about this. About _us_, I suppose.

Not _us _as in Baz and me. I'm not nervous about him, which is a new and exhilarating realization. He'd always made me twitchy before but it seems I've finally figured out why.

It's more about announcing the fact that we're dating to his family.

I mean, it's not really announcing anything though, is it? I'm certain Mordelia has managed to do that for us already. And it's not as if Baz and I have been that discreet in the last day. It just wasn't around anyone either of us knew.

I've not had a serious relationship since Agatha. Being around her parents wasn't quite so fraught; I knew them fairly well before we started dating, when we were just friends and they'd take me in for the Christmas holidays.

I'm not so good around people's parents. I'm not sure how to act. I'm an outsider looking in, I suppose, and everyone's level of comfort with their parents is different. It confuses me.

And then there's Baz's Aunt Fiona. She doesn't just confuse me, she fucking unnerves me, with that piercing stare of hers and comments that bloody well flay you. I hope she's not here.

I really hope she's not here.

Baz pushes open the door to the dining room and I drop his hand as if it's on fire. Fiona Pitch is sitting directly across from the doorway and her gaze goes right to us.

So does everyone else's.

Fuck.

Baz's fingers find mine again and he squeezes my hand. I feel hot, sweaty and shaky, but the cool touch of his hand on mine settles me just a bit. I don't know why I'm freaking out right now, at the worst possible time, but it's not like I've got control over it.

Baz rubs his thumb over mine and squeezes again, a little harder this time. I dart a look in his direction and see the flush on his cheeks but he's got a bit of a smirk on his face. His chin's up and I know this look. This is Baz ready to verbally spar with anyone.

And somehow it relaxes me. I take a breath and try to smile. I know I probably look a fright but I can do this. With Baz at my side, I can do this.

Fiona leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, her smirk a perfect match for the one Baz is sporting. "Baz, you finally found a bloke."

"Fiona, you remember Simon, Baz's roommate from Watford?" Daphne leans forward and gives Fiona a tight little smile.

"I'm sure you remember him," Mr. Grimm chimes in. "Come, Simon." He motions me over. "I imagine you are sick to death of aeroplane food. Good thing you made it in time for Christmas dinner."

I stumble to an open seat next to Baz's little brother. I can't remember his name right now. Baz slides in next to me, bumps my leg under the table and then keeps his own pressed against my thigh. It's reassuring.

Fiona's still coolly appraising me, one eyebrow arched. It makes her look so much like Baz. "Well, it's about damn time, Snow. I had assumed you were too thick to figure it out."

I blink at her. "Figure what out?"

She rolls her eyes. "That Baz was pining for you all those years, you pillock." She's still smirking. "How many times did I tell you, Malcolm? You could cut the sexual tension in that room with a knife."

"Leave it, Fiona." Mr. Grimm gives her a stern look.

"Oh, come on, Malcolm. Let me revel in it for a moment, will you? Baz is finally shagging Mage's Chosen One and I'm the last to know."

Christ, I hate that nickname. Baz called me that first year, when he found out I was on scholarship to Watford. No one's called me that for years. I truly despise it.

Fiona's grinning at me now, glass raised. "Cheers, Snow. You're the first bloke Baz has brought home to meet the family. When's the announcement going in the Times?"

Baz groans. "Seriously, Fiona, put a sock in it."

Mr. Grimm clears his throat. "Daphne, please pass the roast."

And just as suddenly as it started it's done. Everyone turns their eyes away from us and begins to dig in to the platters of food being sent around the table.

There are a fair number of platters. My stomach had been in knots for a few minutes there but it's easing now as the first platter reaches me. It's roast beef.

I love roast beef. It was always on my list of things I missed about Watford, when I'd go back to care in the summers. There's roasted potatoes and chestnut stuffing and brussels sprouts with bacon and my appetite comes roaring back as the scent of the food overwhelms me.

This meal puts even Watford's best to shame. I take second helpings of practically everything. I catch a glimpse of Baz's face as he holds the platter of roast beef for me and he's got that fond expression again.

We do the Christmas crackers then Mrs. Grimm brings out a massive trifle and sticky toffee pudding, and I may as well have died and gone to heaven. I feel stuffed and warm and full of goodwill towards mankind, even Fiona at this point.

Meal over, we make our way to the drawing room, where a large fire is already crackling merrily in the stone fireplace. I'm not sure where to sit or what to do, but Baz tugs me to one of the large sofas. His siblings immediately swarm us from all sides. One of the twins sits next to me, the other by Baz's feet.

I've got no idea which one is sitting by me—they've got matching outfits on, just as Baz said, and I can't tell them apart. Magnus is curled up in front of me and Mordelia is lounging next to Baz. She was all cool indifference at dinner, sporting the utterly bored look that Baz had perfected back at school. It's uncanny how she channels him so well.

I dare a sidelong look at her. She's not all cool indifference now. Her arm is tucked around Baz's and as I peek at her she leans her head against his shoulder.

It's so domestic. Baz's parents are seated on the loveseat closest to the fire, talking quietly to each other. Fiona has taken over one of the massive stuffed leather armchairs across from them, wine glass full yet again.

And Baz is holding my hand.

**Baz**

It didn't take long for my siblings to warm up to Simon. Mordelia is still attempting to be aloof and apathetic, but she's been sizing Simon up since we walked in the door. Acantha has been pestering him with her awful puns since the trifle was served and Ophelia unexpectedly snuggled up to him on the sofa. She's usually the more reserved one of the two.

And as expected, Magnus demanded bedtime stories. But not from me.

I'm leaning against his doorframe, watching Simon read to him. There's an ache in my chest at the sight of them. At the sight of Simon, in my house. Part of my family holiday.

Part of my family.

It takes my breath away to think that something I've desperately wanted for so very long is right within my grasp.

**Simon**

I don't know why I'd let myself have such a panic at the start of dinner. Baz's family is easier to interact with than Agatha's, which is a bit of a stunner.

I always felt like I put Mrs. Wellbelove on edge, like she wasn't sure I'd know how to act at dinner or how to behave when they'd take me to the Club or at the parties they'd have at their home. She was kind but almost wary. It made me fidgety, and then I'd just stumble over my words more or bump into something and generally make a nuisance of myself.

Fiona's still scary as hell, but she'd been unexpectedly benign tonight. Other than that bit at dinner she hadn't done much more than give me long, contemplative stares. Then she'd look at Baz and go all soft.

I'd kissed Baz goodnight, after story time with Magnus. He'd walked me to my room, a wistful expression on his face. I know it's only been two nights, but it's going to feel odd not sharing a bed with him.

I'm all tucked into the massive four poster bed when I first hear it. It sounds like a tap. I think it's coming from the window. I pull the blanket up higher and burrow into the pillows.

Then it happens again. It's more of a scratch this time.

I'd thought about the house being haunted when we first drove up but I hadn't quite anticipated it to live up to that expectation.

The scratching sound comes again. I'm doing my best to ignore it. I do some deep breathing exercises and dive all the way under the blankets.

It's not long before I get beastly hot. I run warm as it is and this bed has layers of covers on it. I'm roasting under here.

I poke my head out and shove the covers down. Silence.

Maybe I was imagining it.

I'm just getting comfortable, close to dozing off, when it happens again.

It's not a tap this time. It's a _whoosh _against the window and then a thump right outside.

And then I hear what sounds like a moan.

I'm contemplating making a runner down the hall to Baz's room.

When the moaning sound comes again I do just that.

**Baz**

I'm finding it hard to settle in. I'm still functioning on New York time. I put another log on the fire, even though it's already blazing hot. I pull a book from the shelf and curl up at the far end of the sofa, closest to the fireplace.

My bed looks far too big tonight. I mentally chide myself. I've had two nights sharing with Simon and I'm already pining for him, even though he's just down the hall. It's pathetic, really.

I'm only a few pages in when a knock comes on the door. I'm in no frame of mind for a heart to heart with anyone at the moment and certainly not a salacious inquiry from Fiona.

It's Simon. His hair is in complete disarray, his face is flushed and he looks on edge.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't stay in there, Baz. I knew this place was haunted, as soon as I laid eyes on it."

"What are you on about? The house isn't haunted."

Simon shakes his head. "My room is."

I'd be tempted to suspect this was a ploy to inveigle himself into my room if he didn't look so anxious.

"Baz, I'm telling you. There's something moaning just outside, banging on the window and all." His brow is furrowed and he's jutting his chin out. Classic Snow expression.

"Show me."

"I'm not going back in there."

I sigh. "Simon."

He's got that obstinate expression I fell in love with now, all stubbornness and determination. Fucking gorgeous. He shakes his head in answer.

"Fine. I'll go see what's got your knickers in a twist." I take off down the hall towards his room and he's right behind me. I give him a sidelong glance. "I thought you weren't going back in there."

"I'm not. But I'm not going to let you swagger on down there and then come back and tell me it was nothing."

"It is nothing. And I don't swagger."

"Like hell you don't."

I step into his room while he stands in the doorway. It's completely silent. "You see, Simon, no ghouls, no ghosts, no mysterious moaning wraiths."

"Just you wait a minute. You'll hear it."

I raise an eyebrow and he growls in response. I stand, arms crossed, leaning against the bedpost. Simon takes a few tentative steps into the room and moves to stand next to me.

There's a scrape at the window and then a muffled thump.

"There!" Simon looks triumphant. "I told you!"

I try to stifle my laughter but I can't. It bubbles out of me, despite the irritated expression on his face.

"What are you laughing at, you posh toff? I told you it's haunted."

I manage to pull myself together. "It's not."

There's another sound just then and Simon points at the window defiantly. "What's that moaning then?"

I can't help it. I'm clutching the bedpost. "You poor sod. It's a bloody owl."

"What do you mean it's a bloody owl?"

"Just that. It's an owl. Likely a barn owl, from the sound of it. They've been known to roost in the chimneys from time to time."

"You're telling me all that racket, that _moaning_, is a sodding owl?" He's incredulous.

He's also fucking incandescent at the moment, full of righteous indignation, curls falling over his forehead, eyes blazing. He's like a magnet, pulling me across the room until I'm right behind him, sliding my arms around his waist and dropping my chin onto his shoulder. "You're in the country now, city boy."

He scoffs but his hands drop to where mine are clasped around his waist. "A fucking owl. I feel like a complete berk." Simon's fingers slide up and down my forearms, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He lets his head fall back, his neck exposed. I ghost my lips up to his jawline. He makes a small, satisfied sound and his eyes close.

His breathing speeds up as my mouth continues to slide along the planes of his skin. He shifts in my arms and then Simon is facing me, mouth reaching up to meet my own. Fingers slide into my hair and I grasp his hips and pull him closer.

He pulls back, just enough space between us for him to form words. "I think this whole experience has me rattled. I don't know how I could possibly sleep in here on my own." The roguish expression on his face contradicts what he's murmuring to me but I don't care.

"I couldn't possibly expect you to tolerate such disturbances to your beauty sleep, Simon. Seems I'll have to offer you my bed and rough it on the sofa for the night."

"You wouldn't dare." His fingers tighten in my hair.

"You're offering to take the sofa? That's quite gallant of you." I can't help grinning at him.

"You are such a wanker."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say what you want, Simon." It comes out a whisper.

He whispers back. "You."

**Simon**

We're far quieter going back to Baz's room, stealthily making our way down the hallway. Baz shuts his door slowly, so it doesn't make a sound.

He takes my hand and pulls me towards the sofa. I sink down next to him but then let myself slide down onto the floor. "Come here."

Baz looks puzzled but he follows suit, shifting off the sofa until he's seated next to me.

"I liked this, the other night." I put my arm around his shoulder and pull him close. Baz tilts his head and I surge up to meet his lips, the drag and push of our mouths and tongues sending a wave of heat through me.

It could just be the blaze in the fireplace but I don't think so. Baz makes me feel like there's fire coursing through my veins, sizzling just under my skin. Like I could go fucking supernova just from his touch.

I've got him on his back moments later, me on all fours above him, sinking down to kiss him and then pulling back, making him reach for me.

He does, every time.

I pull back with a grin one more time and it's his turn to growl. Before I know it, he's pounced on me and dragged me down, pushing me to the carpet and then he stills, resting on one arm, face hovering above my own.

He's beautiful. I think I always knew how attractive Baz was but I never let myself admit it. Not until now. He's stunning in the firelight, shadows and light playing across his face, eyes shining silver in the glow of the fire, skin like dark honey.

His expression's serious now. I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "What is it, Baz?"

"I go back to New York in a week."

I nod. "I know."

"You don't . . . you don't have to go tomorrow, if you don't want to."

My heart's thumping in my chest. I'm not due back at the care home until Monday. "You sure? I know your family's missed you, Baz. I'm sure they don't want to have me hanging around another day."

"I do." He leans down to kiss me again, gentle and slow this time. "I'd have you stay here all week, if I could."

I shake my head. "I'd take you up on that, if I didn't have to be back at work on Monday."

Baz's hand comes to rest on my chest, fingers tracing the patterns on my pyjamas. "I could head to London, meet you for dinner, before I go?"

"I'd like that."

His brow creases. "You really want to do this, Simon? This long-distance thing?"

I nod my head. "I'd like to try. Penny and Micah did it for years. You'll be back when? May? That's not too long."

"It's five months. That's too fucking long."

It is too fucking long. I don't tell him that. "There's texts and phone calls and facetime. I'm not fussed about it."

"I want this." There's a determination in his voice. It sends a thrill through me to hear it, to hear him say that about me.

"I want it too. More than I ever realized."

"Stay tomorrow. I can drive you home tomorrow night or we can leave early Monday morning."

I laugh. "I've got to get home before I go to work, Baz. I've got holiday clothes, not work clothes, in my bag."

He waves his hand dismissively. "You can borrow something of mine."

"I don't fit your trousers. You told me so yourself."

He's leaning closer now, mouth hovering above mine again. "We'll manage."

**Baz**

I don't know what time it is. I've been on the floor, kissing Simon Snow until my lips feel bruised.

"We should get to bed. This floor isn't doing either of us any good."

Simon goes up on one elbow and looks at my bed. "Don't the gargoyles creep you out?"

"What? No, I don't even notice them anymore."

"Ha! They did creep you out at one point then."

I shrug. Christ, what is with me? "I found them a little unnerving when I was young. But that was years ago. They're just part of the décor."

"Vampire Gothic."

"It's Victorian."

"Fine, Victorian vampire lair then."

I roll my eyes. "It's vintage."

Simon laughs. He darts another look at the bed. "They're so many eyes. I'd feel like I was being watched the whole time."

"Watched doing what?"

He raises an eyebrow at me suggestively. I can feel my face start to burn. Memories of the summer after fifth year come to mind. And the summer after that. And . . . fuck it all.

I clear my throat. "You can't see them when the lights are off."

He juts out his chin. "I'd still know they were there."

"You are impossible."

"Just grab a pillow and we'll make do here."

"Simon, I am not going to sleep on the floor of my room when I have a serviceable and dare I say exceptionally comfortable bed just steps away."

He looms over me, eyes wide, hovering just above my face. "A bed with a hundred weird eyes."

I huff. "Fine." I bring myself to my feet and march across the room to grab two pillows from the bed. I toss them across the room at him. He catches one but the other comes so rapidly that it hits him right in the face.

"Arse."

"Coward."

I grin at him and pull the comforter off the bed as well. I cross the room to him. "Come on, then. I suppose I'll have to keep you company, since the owls and gargoyles unnerve you so much."

"Come on where?"

"The sofa, you numpty. I told you I'm not sleeping on the floor." All the furniture in my room is massive. We should manage just fine on the sofa, if a little snug. I have no complaints about that.

Simon comes to a stand as well. I take the pillows and push them to one end, up against the armrest. "This will have to do, I suppose." I wave a hand at the pillows.

He takes the hint. He stretches out on the sofa, head pillowed on his arm, face bathed in the light of the fire, tawny gold and bronze. He's a vision, straight out of one of my fantasies.

I sit and then slowly let myself drop down against the sofa cushions and the heat of Simon. I mirror his position, facing the fire. He curls himself around me, arm resting over my waist and then he tugs me closer. I can feel his breath on my neck, shivers going through me at the sensation, his chest pressed against my back.

I'm in Simon Snow's arms. There's nowhere I'd rather be.

**Simon **

I breathe in the scent of his hair and gently touch my lips to his neck. I'm tired. I can barely keep my eyes open but I don't need to see to do this, to touch Baz, to nuzzle against his neck and spoon myself around him.

He pulls the blanket over us and rests his hand on mine. I push my fingers up to twine with his. I wonder if he can feel my heart pounding. I can feel the flutter of his pulse under my lips.

As small sigh escapes me as I drop my head onto his shoulder. Baz's cold feet tangle with mine but I don't pull them away.

This feels so right. He's the only familiar thing in this room and he's the one thing I want to hold onto, for as long as I can.

I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

**Baz**

The sun is streaming into the room by the time I wake up. I'm still in the circle of Simon's arms, his breath still warm and regular on my neck. I could stay here all day, crammed together in the confines of my sofa.

I'm just going to revel in this moment.

I've nothing to do today. Boxing Day is usually quiet at my house. Father and Daphne never make plans. They know the children are rabid to play with their new toys and any other venture would be fraught with drama. Now that Daphne finally succumbed to letting them get a video game console I'm sure they'll be glued to it all day, with a few breaks for squabbles and snacks.

I'll steer clear.

I mentally run through my checklist for the week. I've made tentative plans to see Dev and Niall. I'll likely spend at least one night at Fiona's. We'll sit around and watch 80's films, drink a lot of wine and eat chocolate. It's tradition.

Simon's going to be working, come Monday. And I'll be leaving on New Year's Eve. To get back to New York in time to be at work bright and early January second. Americans truly have no regard for family time or holidays. It's brutal. Two weeks' vacation a year and I already burned through most of the first week at the end of the summer and this week will take me through the second.

I won't get a chance to come back until May or after.

Five fucking months.

I'll drive up to London, meet him for dinner, find some way to be with him before I have to leave again.

Simon stirs against my back and the arm across my waist tightens. "Stop thinking so hard."

"I'm not thinking." I am. I've got a million thoughts spinning through my head.

"You are. I can practically feel you ticking things off on your fingers."

I can't help but laugh. He's right. It's unnerving how well he reads me, how he can sense my thoughts, my discomfort.

But I know him too. I know what to expect when he juts his chin out, when he balls his fists at his side, when he tilts his head as if he's listening to something just out of range. When his eyes blaze, when they soften, when he pulls at the curls on his head.

I've watched the moods of Simon Snow for so very long that each one is familiar to me.

Each one except the new ones that make my skin tingle and my heart pound in my chest. The fond looks, the tender gestures, the way his eyes rest on me and make me feel like I am the center of his world.

Simon's kissing my neck now and I shift in his arms so I'm facing him, reaching up to sink my hands in his hair.

"I'm going to miss you." That's not what I meant to say.

He kisses the tip of my nose. "I'm going to miss you too, but I don't want to talk about that." He leans in to brush his lips to mine. "It hurts to think about things I can't have or can't help."

"You can have me." Once again words leave my lips that I'd not intended to say. I mean them, with every fibre of my being, but I hadn't meant to say them out loud.

He smiles that smile I've grown to love in the last few days. The one that makes me feel like it's meant just for me.

"Not the way I'd like to but I'll find a way to manage until May."

I wish we were back at Ebb's. A place where no one knows us, where the days are our own, where the nights come down to nothing but the two of us.

My lips find his once more. Simon's fingers slip between the buttons of my pyjama shirt and come to rest against my stomach, gently rubbing against my skin, and I can't think of anything except his touch.

Until a knock comes on the door, that is.

What I'd give for some sodding privacy.

I groan and come to a seated position. The knock comes again, louder this time.

"So help me, Baz, I'm going to walk in if you don't open this door. You've had all night to shag your boyfriend or wank away to the thought of him. Open up. I'm leaving for London in an hour, you twat."

Fuck. It's Fiona.

She's always got some bash to go to on Boxing Day. Watford friends. They all go drinking, slumming and clubbing in Covent Garden. It's a whole scene. She's wrecked for days after.

The knocking comes again and there's a warning twist to the doorknob. I never even thought to lock it last night. Blast the woman.

"Hush." I whisper to Simon and then I'm dashing across the room.

I open the door partway, positioning myself in the opening, effectively blocking all sight of him. "Sod off, Fiona. I'm still on the blasted New York clock."

Fiona raises an eyebrow. She's all kitted out for her day—black leather jacket, black mini-skirt with tights, her kick-ass black boots. Makeup on point, lipstick blood red. "Nice try, boyo, but your boyfriend forgot to close the door to his room last night. It's empty and he's nowhere to be found."

She goes up on tiptoe to try to peek around me, a feral smile on her face. "Why don't you invite me in for a little chat before I go?"

I think the hell not.

"I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast."

"It's midday, you pillock. Almost one o'clock."

It's a bit of a standoff now. Fiona has a triumphant look on her face. She may have to leave in an hour but knowing her she'll spend the whole sodding hour lurking about my room for confirmation that I've got Simon squirreled away in here.

I don't dare look behind me at Simon. That will give the whole thing away. I lean out a bit and lower my voice. "I promise I'll tell you everything when I come up on Wednesday."

Her grin is exultant. "That means you've got something to tell me then." She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe.

Fuck.

I hear shuffling behind me. Blast it. I lean my head against the edge of the door. "Fiona. . ."

She's beaming now and focused on something just over my left shoulder. I feel the heat of Simon before I turn my head for confirmation.

"Uh, hi?"

He's standing right behind me and Fiona is grinning like a madwoman. "Good afternoon, Snow."

Simon shuffles his feet and gives me an apologetic look. "I've got to use the loo. It seemed like you weren't going to wrap this up too quick."

"Yes, right." I move aside and make room for Simon to sidle out the door. He gives Fiona a brief nod of the head and then he's making a runner down the hallway.

Deserter.

The smug look on her face makes my skin flame. She shoves me in the chest and pushes into the room. "Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch I never thought you'd have it in you to shag your boyfriend in the venerable confines of Pitch Manor!"

"I'm not shagging him, you frightful wretch." This is peak Fiona. She has no filter and absolutely no boundaries when it comes to privacy. It's maddening and also comforting.

She was the first person I came out to. She took me out for my first night of clubbing. She was the first person I ever got drunk with. Fiona's like a fairy godmother except more like Maleficent than the pastel trio. And a lot more fun.

She takes in the sight of the rumpled bed linen and the pillows and comforter on the sofa and starts to laugh. "Jesus, Baz, you are such a Vestal virgin. Did you seriously make your boyfriend spend the night on your sofa?"

"Shut up, Fiona."

She pulls me into her arms, her embrace as fierce and firm as ever. "You look happy, you besotted prick. So does he. Don't fuck this up." She takes my face in her hands and leans up, grey eyes dark and deliberate. "I mean it, Baz. You've got the capacity to talk yourself in circles." She flicks my forehead with her index finger. "Don't think so hard. Enjoy this. You finally have what you've wanted for so long." She flicks me again. "Don't. Fuck. It. Up."

She squeezes the breath out of me and steps back to the door. "You can bring Snow if you want, on Wednesday."

"I think that's likely the best way to fuck it up, don't you?"

Fiona laughs. "That gives me hope for you, you utter berk. Snog the hell out of him as long as you can and come around on Wednesday. I'll have _Breakfast Club_ and _Local Hero_, more salt and vinegar crisps than you can inhale in a night, and enough wine to loosen even you up."

I hug her back. "Thanks, Fiona."

She's out the door and I can hear her boots thumping down the stairs. Fiona's a force of nature. I love her to bits but she comes on a bit strong. I think it's best Simon's only exposed to her in short bursts. Mordelia's enough for one weekend.

I poke my head out and look down the corridor. Simon peeks out of his bedroom at the same time, eyes wide.

I shake my head at him. He doesn't budge. "She's gone." I hiss it down the hall.

He shakes his head back, jaw jutting out. I sigh and make my way to his door. "She's gone," I repeat.

"That may be, but I'm not taking the chance on Mordelia or Magnus or anyone else coming to find you. That was more than enough for me."

"Fiona's just a lot of fuss and bother. Her bark's worse than her bite."

"She's fucking terrifying." Simon's face is flushed and he looks good enough to eat.

"You'll get used to her." I like the thought of that.

"Like getting used to a fucking cyclone."

"She's been on her best behaviour so far."

"I'm doomed." Simon's brow is furrowed. I reach out a finger and smooth the lines on his forehead. His expression relaxes at my touch.

"You're not doomed. It means she likes you."

"I think the fuck not. She was glaring at me the whole night."

"That's her fond glare. You'll get used to it."

Simon's stomach chooses this moment to rumble loudly. "Alright, you nightmare. Get dressed. It's obviously time to feed you again." I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead. His fingers find mine and he pulls me close, a brush of lips before he pulls away. "Come to my room when you're ready."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Simon**

No one's in the kitchen by the time we get downstairs. I can hear the little 'uns voices down the hall.

Baz rummages around in the refrigerator then pulls out a few sealed containers of food.

It's a bit surreal watching Baz make me a roast beef sandwich in the Pitch Manor kitchen. Not a sight I ever expected to see but it's certainly a welcome one.

He's put all sorts of left-overs on my plate. His has considerably less food on it than mine.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

He points at his plate. "I am eating."

I frown. "Not much."

Baz frowns back at me then reaches over to dump a little more chestnut stuffing on his plate.

"That's it?"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm saving room for dessert."

"That sweet tooth of yours."

"I happen to be partial to trifle."

"I'd not say no to some of that sticky toffee pudding." Mrs. Grimm's sticky toffee pudding was heavenly.

"Then you'd be out of luck."

"What? It's not all finished, is it? I swear there was some on the platter when we cleared the dishes last night."

The tips of his ears flush. He's not meeting my eyes. "Baz?"

"Oh, shut up, you nightmare. I came down and polished it off after you went to bed." He gives me a pointed look. "The _first_ time you went to bed."

"You jammy bastard. I was looking forward to some more of that."

"You can have trifle."

It's ridiculous really, that we're bickering about sweets. I can't help but grin. We sound like we used to, back when we roomed together, squabbling familiarly but with none of the bitterness.

I love it.

We sit at the kitchen table, side by side, legs rubbing and arms bumping. It's cozy. It's domestic.

It's fucking perfect.

And that's when the ache in my chest at the thought of him leaving in a week hits me again. I can't help it. It gets me every time. I've put up a good front, but five months does sound daunting when you think about it.

I suppose we've been apart five years so what's five months compared to that?

It helps to think of it that way, if only a little.

Baz and I demolish what's left of the trifle, both leaning over the dish, spoons dueling for the best bites.

I carry the dishes to the sink and do the washing up while Baz dries. I'm going to think back on this moment when I'm alone in my flat, and that thought is almost unbearable.

"So. Shall we search out the hellions and devote the afternoon to board games or is there something else you'd rather do?" Baz is leaning against the counter, one eyebrow arched in question.

I can think of an entire list of things I'd like to do with him and none of them involve the kind of games he's talking about.

Baz clears his throat and flushes again. "I meant down here. We should at least put in an appearance?"

My face flames in response. "Yeah, uh, yes, of course." How bad can games with his siblings be?

Horrifically bad, it turns out. These children are all as insanely competitive as Baz, even Magnus, and he's only seven.

They thrash me at Scrabble. I thought it would be better if we split into teams. That was my first mistake. Mordelia paired up with Acantha, Baz with Magnus, and Ophelia got me. I'm sure she regrets it. She's the only reason we even got one triple word score. The disgust on her face when all I could eke out on the last go-around was "BAT" is uncannily similar to the look Baz used to sport whenever he'd walk by my clothes hamper at school (I run hot) (can't be helped if my laundry gets a little ripe) (I still tend to wait until I'm down to the dregs of my closet before I do the wash).

He's not sneering at me this time though. He's fucking smirking at the board as he adds a "WOM" to my word and seals his victory in the game. Wanker.

Scrabble over, they drag me into a game of _Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit_ which ends up being even more of a bloodbath for me, as we're all on our own for this one.

It's not like I haven't seen the movies. I have. I like them well enough but there's no way I know what bloody color hood Faramir placed on Gollum's sodding head by the Forbidden Pool. It's all rot.

I lose again. Even Magnus does better than I do.

I feel the touch of Baz's hand on my arm. He's rubbing my forearm, stroking up and down gently. It's soothing. I like it. He can keep doing that all day, as far as I'm concerned.

"Had enough of the minions?" Baz says it softly, for my ears only. Said minions are all crouched in a corner of the room, quarrelling over which game to torture me with next.

They rise in triumph, Magnus brandishing a Monopoly box at us.

Bloody hell. Anything but that.

I'm on my feet in an instant. Baz stifles a snort but stands up with me, fingers searching mine out. He shakes his head at his siblings. "You can play amongst yourselves for a bit, you horrors. I'm going to give Simon a tour of the house."

"More likely a tour of your tonsils," Mordelia says, just loud enough for us to hear. She gives Baz a wicked grin and then winks at me. She's incorrigible, truly. This girl is going to give Fiona a run for her money before long.

It's a terrifying thought.

Baz gives her a withering look. "And what would you know about that?"

"Looked like you were giving it a go last night." She smirks right back at him and Baz wisely chooses to beat a hasty retreat, before the younger ones get involved in this conversation.

We escape to the hallway. "Are you really giving me a tour of the house?"

"Do you truly want one?"

"Well, Mordelia's option is quite tempting but I am curious about this Gothic mansion of yours."

"I told you, it's Victorian."

I grin at him. "I know."

"Nightmare." He pulls me along the hallway.

Baz's house is fucking absurd. There's a gallery filled to the brim with portraits of deceased Pitch relatives. It's a little unsettling having a whole room of them sneering at me.

There's a green room and a red room (Baz's lurid bedroom isn't even the actual "red room") (You should see that one) (it's straight out of a horror movie). Then there's Fiona's room but Baz says it's just a shrine to dark wave music and manky 80's posters.

It is.

Mine's the blue room so we skip that and head to the library. It's massive. Heavy, dark furniture, large windows, a fireplace at the far end, and shelves and shelves of books. Leather bound books. Ancient looking tomes. I'd not be surprised to find an original copy of the fucking Magna Carta in here.

We don't find that but we do find Mr. Grimm. He's seated in an armchair at the back of the room, near the fire, reading a book. Baz gets his widows peak from him.

"Ah, Basilton. Simon." Mr. Grimm gives us a nod.

"Just giving Simon a tour of the house, Father."

"You've shown him the dungeon then?"

My eyes widen. I hadn't quite expected the house to be that cliché, but it is Pitch Manor. I suppose they could have a dungeon here. The idea makes the hair on my neck stand up.

Baz gives his father a rather feral smile. "Thought I'd save that for the end."

I look from one to the other.

Mr. Grimm doesn't last long. His lips curve up. "Simon, you should see your face."

Baz is laughing too.

"What?" I'm still looking back and forth between them, not sure of the joke.

Baz huffs at me. "You absolute numpty, there is no dungeon. It's just a wine cellar, a storage area, and a fair amount of dust and spiders."

Mr. Grimm still looks amused. "We were just having you on, Simon. No dungeons here." He darts a glance at Baz and smooths his features. "But I make no promises about the estate in Scotland."

I swear he winks, but it's so fast I'm not sure it actually happened.

I've got no idea what to think. "You've got an estate in Scotland?" is what manages to come out of my mouth.

"Yes. It's been in my family for generations." Mr. Grimm nods in my direction. "We go there in the summers." His eyes dart to Baz and they hold each other's gaze for a long moment, Mr. Grimm's aspect taking on that fond look I've glimpsed on Baz lately. "You should bring Simon, when you come home for your summer holiday, Basilton."

I can feel Baz shift position next to me, see the relaxing of his posture. He fingers brush against mine. "Sounds like a splendid idea."

**Baz**

I do end up snogging Simon in the wine cellar. It's cold but it's also far more private than any other place in the house. Far less chance of Mordelia sneaking up on us here.

I've got him pushed up against one of the stone walls, hands on his hips. We're pressed together and the heat of him seeps through his clothes to warm me.

It's doing quite a bit more to me than simply warming me up. I shift position, angling my hips slightly away from him.

One of Simon's hands is in my hair and the other has slipped between the buttons of my shirt, to trace patterns of searing heat against my skin, just like this morning. I don't want him to stop.

Eventually we do stop, because breathing is an unfortunate necessity.

I press my forehead to his. "I don't want you to go."

His eyes close. "I don't want to go. But I've got to get back for work tomorrow."

"You could stay tonight. I'll drive you in the morning." How can I sound so fucking needy?

Simon's remarkable blue eyes meet mine. He pulls back to smirk at me. "I'd never be on time, if I stayed here with you."

He's probably right about that. I'd likely find every excuse to delay.

"You'll come up to London later this week, yeah?"

"You couldn't keep me away." Fucking hell. The things that come out of my mouth when I'm with Simon. I've got no filter with him. I'll be turning into fucking Fiona next, except spouting besotted romantic nonsense instead of bitter sarcasm and robust swearing.

"What's the time, Baz?"

I pull back far enough to check my watch. "It's almost six."

Simon shakes his head. "I should head home. I've got wash to do before tomorrow and a day of activities to plan."

His hands come to rest on my face as he tips his head up to kiss me. It's a long few moments before we move apart again.

"You alright driving me home?"

"I told you I would. It's that much more time I get to spend with you. Every moment counts." It's done. It's over. Whatever filter I had left has been definitively annihilated by the all-consuming blaze of affection I have for this boy. I'm a disgrace to the Pitch name.

I don't care.

I thought I'd lost him forever five years ago.

I don't intend on losing him again.

**Simon**

It takes longer than I expected to say goodbye to Baz's family. Mrs. Grimm hugs me and tells me she hopes I can visit again. Mr. Grimm gives me a firm handshake and reiterates his invitation for the summer.

Acantha and Ophelia give me hugs of their own, while Magnus demands a piggy-back ride down the long hallway upstairs before he'll allow me out of his sight.

I oblige and end up red-faced and puffing by the time I get back downstairs. Baz just smirks at me, the prat.

There is one more farewell it seems. Mordelia tugs at my sleeve as we walk past her toward the front door.

I stop. She's got her hands on her hips and she's glaring at me. She's literally a mini-Fiona. She leans forward and pokes one finger at my chest. "Don't be a knobhead."

"Mordelia, language." Mrs. Grimm snaps.

Mordelia rolls her eyes. "Fine." Her eyes meet mine. "You know what I mean, Snow."

I think I do.

For all her put-on indifference she cares about Baz deeply. They've got a way of communicating in this family—a way that cloaks their affection with sharp commentary, bitter sarcasm and vague insinuations. They know how to read each other, under that veneer.

My work with sullen youngsters has given me a bit of insight on the undercurrent of deep emotion that can be concealed by such language. My recent time with Baz has made me rethink many of our past interactions.

I nod at her. "I'll do my best." I lean a little closer, words for her ears only. "It means that much to me too, you know."

Her eyes widen. She nods back and the mask slips into place once again. I'm far more knowledgeable about that too, in hindsight.

I had years of seeing Baz do just that.

**Baz**

The closer we get to Simon's flat the dodgier the neighbourhood looks. There's a parking spot open just past his building and I pull into it. I wasn't sure what I expected when we got here but I most certainly am not just dropping him off. I want a look around this place.

There's a boarded-up shop just across the street, graffiti spray painted onto the brick and boards. As we walk to his building I take in the sight of rubbish piled up and around the bins. There's a shape that scurries into the shadows as we approach that I am fairly certain is a rat.

One of the lights by the door to the building is burnt out.

"I'm on the third floor. Bit of a trek up the stairs." Simon grins back at me as he bounds up the steps. "Can you manage that these days, Baz, with your desk job?"

There's a challenge in his eyes. I may sit at a desk all day but I'm still in peak physical condition.

"I don't think I was the one huffing and puffing while giving a small boy a short piggy back ride earlier today, Simon."

"Whatever you say." Then he races up the steps without another look back.

This is unacceptable. "You cheat!" I'm flying up the steps behind him.

He beats me, of course. He's leaning against the door to what must be his flat when I reach the third floor.

"Cheat."

"Plodder."

"Oh, shut up."

Simon's grinning as he unlocks the door. "You still can't stand losing. Not even at the smallest things."

"I didn't lose. You cheated."

I follow him into his flat. It's dark and wretched. There are too few windows and the room is small, the paint on the walls a dingy grey.

Walls which are empty. No posters. No pictures. I take in the lumpy sofa, the single scuffed up coffee table, the slightly crooked floor lamp.

Simon flushes. "It's not much, I know. Penny and I had a nicer flat but I couldn't keep up with the rent without a roommate." He jams his hands in his pockets. "I'd only ever lived in the care homes, with you at Watford, and then Penny. Thought it was time I lived on my own for a bit." He shrugs. "It's all I could really afford right now."

It's such a familiar motion, one that I remember well. Shrugs are a form of conversation for Simon. This one tugs at my heart.

"Show me the rest of it then, since I'm here."

There isn't much to see. A tiny kitchen, barely room for the sink, refrigerator, and a chipped two burner and stove combination. A small microwave takes up most of the counterspace. The bathroom is miniscule. I'm not sure the door could close if someone was sat on the toilet.

His bedroom is the only place that actually looks inhabited. There's a bright comforter on the rumpled bed. An obligatory Liverpool poster marking his football club affiliation is tacked up on the wall. Stacks of papers and books litter the small desk.

And photographs.

Simon and Bunce. Simon and Wellbelove. All three of them and a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with such perfectly even teeth that he can only be Bunce's American fiancé.

I stop at a Watford photo. It's the class picture we took right before the Leavers Ball. We're all kitted out in our best, the girls in dresses, the boys all in suits.

I'm there in the back. On the far left. Just next to Dev and Niall.

I'm not looking at the camera though. This isn't the same photo I have, where I'm exuding boredom, one eyebrow up in disdain.

In this one I'm looking across and down, towards the ruddy-faced, smiling vision of Simon in the front row, flanked by Bunce and Wellbelove.

He's not looking at the camera either. He's got an arm around each of the girls, but he's looking over his shoulder at something, only part of his face visible.

I think he's looking at me.

Shame wells up, threatening to choke me. I was such a fucking wanker. I could have had . . . I don't rightly know what I could have had, but looking at this photograph makes me realize once again what an utter arse I was. How I could have made things better—for Simon, for me, for just about everyone in our class who had to deal with our animosity—but I was too fucking full of myself to do anything but sneer and snarl at the person I cared for most.

The person who might have cared for me too.

Simon's hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "Baz?"

I swallow and blink at the picture. "I've . . . I've not seen this one before."

Simon tilts his head and regards it. "Yeah, Dr. Wellbelove took that one. Agatha gave it to me. I've got the official school one somewhere around here, but I like this one better. It's more candid. He snapped it just before Mrs. Possibelf shouted at us to face forward and stop messing around." He grins at me. "This is more how we actually were, I think, than the prats we all look like in the other shot." He nudges my shoulder. "Except for you, you look like a prat in all of them."

His eyes meet mine and the grin fades. "You all right, Baz?"

"I'm fine." I'm not, not really. I hate the neighborhood, I despise this manky flat of his, I feel wretched at the thought of him coming home to this grey place, to spend his nights alone here.

But most of all I hate the person I was in this photograph. The person who couldn't be true to his feelings. The person who couldn't find it in himself to be the least bit kind to the roommate he was foolishly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.

"Hey." Simon's turning me to face him. "What're you thinking about? You've got this pinched, pissed off look and it's worrying me." He tentatively reaches a hand up to stroke my hair. "I've never liked that look on you. It doesn't suit."

I drop my gaze to the floor. I'm desperate to pull the mask back up, smooth my features, toss my head and look down my nose at him to convince him I'm fine.

_This is your second chance, arsehole, _I tell myself_. Whatever you think you should do is probably the wrong answer._

I reach up to clasp his hand. I close my eyes. "It just reminded me of what an arsehole I was back then, that's all." I force myself to open my eyes and meet his gaze. "I don't like remembering that, how I was to you." Fuck it all. I'm done for as it is. I may as well keep going. "It makes me realize how lucky I am now and how close I came to fucking this up for all time."

Simon's fingers tighten in my hair. "But you didn't fuck it up for all time, now did you?" His other hand comes up to brush my cheek. "You were a right arse. But I was too."

He sighs. "I didn't really understand how I felt about you until a few days ago. It came on me, like a ton of bricks, at Ebb's. But the thoughts I had about you there, the things I noticed about you? None of those were new. I'd had them before." He tilts his head at the photo. "I'd not let myself think about it. Back then. Took 'til now to figure it all out." Simon gives me a tentative smile. "You always said I was thick, Baz, and in this case you've the right of it. I was thick. About this. About us." He steps closer. "Not anymore."

The words wrench out of me. "I'm sorry."

"Fuck, Baz, if we're going to start apologizing about every little thing we did to each other at Watford we'll be here all night. It's done. We've talked about it already. You were a wanker and I was a shit. We likely still are. And that's ok."

His thumb brushes over my cheekbone. "All that matters now is going forward, yeah? We've been shit to each other." Simon's brilliant grin is back. "Now we get to see how things are when we're not." His lips crash into mine, and I'm pulling him toward me, hands gripping his hips, fingers digging into him. The touch of him is electric, like sparks lighting at every point of contact.

My tongue traces his lips, slips between his parted ones to meet his, and I feel like I've had too much to drink; the feel, the scent, the touch of him, intoxicating me. I want to pull him closer, I want to fold him into my embrace, I want to throw back my head and laugh at the sheer joy of him.

I want to keep on kissing Simon forever.

**Simon **

We're at my door now. Baz's hands are running up and down my back. I've got my hands sunk into his hair because I can't get enough of touching it. It's soft and thick and it smells so good. I tug on his bottom lip with my teeth and he pulls me closer, until there is no space between us.

This is the longest goodbye I've ever experienced but I'm still not ready to let Baz go.

I need to. It's late. He's got a long drive back and I've got an early morning. The thought runs through my head to ask him to stay, but I push it away. I can't ask Baz to spend the night. He's just got back to his family, I can't monopolize him like that.

I'm fairly certain I didn't change the sheets before I left and almost sure the other set is crumpled up in my hamper. The bathroom's nasty too. Can't even remember when I cleaned it last.

There's nothing for us to eat for breakfast.

I'm also not convinced it's a good idea for him to have left the Jaguar parked outside for even this long, let alone overnight.

This is a shit neighborhood and a shit flat and I need to get Baz on his way home. I tear myself away from the warmth of his mouth.

"Hey. It's late. I shouldn't have kept you this long."

"I don't want to go."

It's so odd to hear him say things like that. I mean, he has, all these days, but it still brings me up short to hear him be so _honest_, so open about his feelings. I know it's not easy for him, never has been I'm sure, but the fact that he's trying says so much to me, means so much to me.

"I know. I don't want you to go either but you've got a long drive and I'm a bit anxious about the Jag being parked out there." I grimace. "It's not unheard of for cars to get broken into around here."

His expression becomes stern. "That isn't making me feel any better about leaving, Simon."

"That's not what I meant. I'm fine. Everyone knows me around here. I'm not fussed about it."

"You may not be, but I am."

I roll my eyes. "I've lived here for over six months, Baz. _It's fine_. Promise." I poke him in the chest. "This is how most of London lives, you know. Not everyone has mansions with galleries and courtyards and dungeons." I'm grinning at him now.

"There are no dungeons, I told you that."

"Stop being so literal. You know what I mean, you posh twat." I bring his face close to mine and kiss him on the nose. "Come on, now. Off with you. Text me what day is good for you this week. Any day is good for me."

"I'll call. Tomorrow."

"I can't answer between 9 and 4. I'll be at the home and can't talk while I'm there. But feel free to text, if that works."

He nods, hands sliding down to grip both of mine tightly. "I'll see you this week, then."

I let go of one of his hands and open the door. I push him a bit, still holding his other hand in mine. "Go on then. Text me when you get home, so I know you're alright, yeah?"

Baz kisses me one more time, open mouth and deep, like he's inhaling the very sensation of me. When he does step back his eyes are a dark, turbulent grey, pupils wide. "I miss you already, you nightmare." It's said so tenderly, the insult at the end such an endearment in his voice now.

"I'll miss you too, you tosser." I say it back just as fondly.

Baz looks over his shoulder as he goes down the steps. I close the door when I can't see him anymore.

And then, because I'm an absolute disaster, I dart across the room to the window, so I can watch him walk to his car. It seems to be alright. He lifts his head and gazes up at my building. I don't know if he can see me, silhouetted in the narrow window, but I wave anyway.

His hand comes up, then he slides into the driver's seat, and I watch his car drive away.

**Baz**

I know what I want to do when I come back up to see Simon. I know exactly how we're going to spend the time.

And it damn well won't end with us at his flat, I can tell you that.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Baz**

I picked Simon up directly from the care home.

We've had the kind of afternoon I'd envisioned and now we're sharing a curry in the kitchen at my flat.

My place is in better shape than I expected, what with me being gone for over six months. Fiona's had someone come around to check on it once a month. It's a bit dusty and stale, but not so bad.

It's sleek and sterile, all modern lines and stark contrasts, but it's home, of a sort. More than that soulless pre-furnished studio I have in Manhattan.

I spent my first year of uni living with Fiona. One year was more than enough. I found this place that first summer. Spent some of my inheritance furnishing it, making it my own. Even if that means somewhat uncomfortable ultra-modern furniture and a monochromatic color scheme. It doesn't have the heavy, overly rich opulence of Pitch Manor or the eccentric chaos that characterized Fiona's place. I love my aunt but she is a terrible flatmate. Between the clouds of cigarette smoke, her irrational hours, the on-again/off-again boyfriend situation, and the feral cat she'd adopted, I nearly went mad.

My flat is exceedingly neat, orderly, methodically arranged. A bit of a blank canvas still, almost like it's waiting for me to figure out exactly what I want.

It suited me fine when I was at uni. I needed a quiet place to study. A peaceful place to sleep. It adequately accommodated movie nights with Dev and Niall. The kitchen's first rate, but it's not as if I entertain anyone other than the two of them or Fiona. This place is what I needed at the time.

It looks stark to me tonight.

Not as bleak as the place in New York but still there's something off about it now. I know I haven't lived here for months but there's a sense of isolation when I take it in. No, maybe that's not right. I can't seem to find the right words to describe it.

Pitch Manor could be a featured house in Architectural Digest but it still looks lived in. Despite its historic nature and registry status, it manages to give off the sense that real people actually live there.

This place doesn't. I don't think it's really hit me before. It could be an advert for a modern design catalog but the kind of place that never has any people in it—just a showplace, no depth behind it.

That troubles me.

Nothing to do about it now. I'm obliged to stay in New York until May, at least, if not longer.

We move to the main room after our meal and I flip the television on. Simon finds a cooking show he likes and I watch with him, his head resting on my shoulder. There's none of the frenetic making out we'd indulged in last time we were together, at his flat earlier in the week.

You'd think there would be, seeing as I leave the day after tomorrow. It feels as if I'm trying to cram months' worth of dating into just a few short days. We've indulged in snogging. He's met the family. Now it's time for companionship and just being together, soaking up his company to tide me over for the fucking brutal months of separation ahead.

I'm exhilarated at the proximity of him and terrified of his impending absence. I finally get him back, for what? A week? Only to then have to bugger off across the fucking Atlantic before I've had a chance to even get used to the idea of _this_.

"You're thinking again."

"I told you, I can't help it." I pull our laced hands to rest on my thigh. "I'm not like you. I can't just push the thoughts away."

"Don't push them away then. But tell me what you're thinking, so I can figure out when I need to tell you that you're being a twat."

"Well, that'd be all the time, now wouldn't it? Isn't that what you used to say?" I can't help but smirk at him.

Simon rolls his eyes. "Don't be using that against me." He bumps my shoulder. "You're far more pleasant now. Don't fuck it up or I'll have to tell Mordelia it's all your fault."

"Tell Mordelia what's my fault?"

"If you get all caught up in your head like you do and start some existential drama about all this. She'll blame me, she will, and she scares me."

"You're seriously frightened of a twelve-year-old girl? Don't be ridiculous, Simon."

"She's may be twelve but she's already got ice in her veins." Simon tucks his head into the crook of my neck. "So don't make me look bad or she'll level me."

I pull him closer to me, brush a kiss on his tumbled curls. How am I to be expected to just go back to Hampshire tonight? When I have Simon in my arms?

It's intolerable.

"We could stay here tonight." The thought's been on my mind for hours.

Simon shifts so that he's facing me, legs drawn up onto the sofa. "You're supposed to head home tonight."

"I don't need to."

He pushes at my knee. "You do. You've only got this week here. Tomorrow's the last day you get to be with your family." He kicks at my leg. "I'm not intending on starting this all off with your family hating me."

I snort. "They couldn't hate you, you numpty. They love you already."

"They barely know me."

"Exactly. And Mordelia's already threatened you and Father's invited you to Scotland. It's a ringing endorsement."

He laughs but quickly turns serious again. "I want to keep it that way, yeah? I'll not be monopolizing you, when they've been pining to see you."

"What if I want to be monopolized?"

"You're impossible, you twat."

"Come with me, then, Simon. Come to Hampshire with me. You can take the Tube from Heathrow when I fly out."

"I shouldn't." Simon's forehead creases. "I'm not sure I'll say this right." He tugs at his sleeve, pulling on the cuff of his jumper, then looks up to glare at me. "Don't you take this the wrong way, you berk."

I roll my eyes. "What is it you're trying to say, Simon?"

"I don't think I should go with you this time."

"Why the hell not?"

Simon shifts on the sofa, one hand reaching up to rub at his neck. "This should be your time."

"I'm not following you. It's my time to spend as I choose. And I choose you."

His expression turns achingly fond. "That means the world to me, Baz, really it does." His hand finds mine, grip tightening on it for a moment. "It's just that it's important to me."

"What is?"

"This. Us." He waves his free hand in the air between us. "I'm lucky to have gotten these few days with you. Don't want the little 'uns resenting me being there and your family having this awkward extra person around, when they should be enjoying their time with you." He shakes his head and juts his chin out.

Fuck. There's no arguing with him when he gets this look. Don't I know it.

I argue anyway. Because it's what I do.

"That's bollocks. They can jolly well enjoy their time with _us_. They did at Christmas. I don't see it as a problem, Simon." I touch his knee. "Come with me."

His eyebrows come together. "Baz. I'd love to spend more time with you but I'm not doing it at the expense of time with your family." His gaze softens. "I heard you. I heard you talking with your father, when we were at Ebb's. I know how badly you wanted to get home, how much you've missed them."

Simon's not looking stubborn anymore. His expression has shifted to something far more melancholy. "I know I'm probably not saying this right." He tugs at his hair. "Listen. I know I'm not one to talk about what it means to be with family, not having one and all. But I do know how important your family is to you, Baz, has always been to you." He shifts closer to me. "It'll be five months before you see them again. You should savor that time with them, without any distractions." His grip on my hand is almost painful now. "Please?"

It's the _'please'_ that gets me. That and the way his eyes meet mine, the intense blue of them piercing the depths of me.

"You're sure? I know they wouldn't mind."

Simon shifts and then he's pressed up against me again. "I'm sure. Not a good idea overstaying my welcome the first week we're together." He's nuzzling at my neck, lips trailing up to my jaw. "But we don't need to end the night just yet." The words are whispered into my skin and I shiver.

I turn my head to touch my lips to his and a moment later I'm on my back, Simon above me, eyes wide, pupils blown. "I've got some memories I need to store up, yeah?"

And then his lips are on mine, his mouth taking my breath away, his tongue finding my own. My hands roam over his chest, his back, fingers tracing the muscles I feel there. He's holding himself above me, his mouth and legs the only point of contact.

I want more.

I pull at him, bring him closer, yearning to feel the heady weight of him on me. Simon pulls back to look at me, balancing on one arm as his hand reaches out to stroke my face. I shift my legs and the movement throws him off balance a bit. Our legs tangle as he settles between mine, his chest pressed against my own.

"This alright then?" It's a whisper, the exhalation of his breath warming my lips.

"More than alright." My hands move up to tangle in his jumbled curls. I inhale the scent of him—medicinal soap, the green aroma of fresh mown grass, the crisp tang of his sweat. He always runs hot, Simon does. Now is no exception. He's draped over me like my own personal heater and it warms more than just my body.

There's been a frozen shell around me for so long. Thick and impenetrable, its icy surface offering no purchase for anyone intrepid or stupid enough to try to breach it.

Simon doesn't back down from a challenge. He never has. He cuts right through to the heart of things, slashing past the obstacles in his way.

He's not lacerating me with his words like he used to at school. It's as if he's wielding a blowtorch and has it pointed at my heart. You'd think it would burn but all I feel is warmth and softness, like I'm melting from the inside.

Maybe I am.

"You're thinking again, you knob. Here I am trying to entice you and your brain is a million miles away." He huffs at me. "So much for my attempt at seduction."

"Trust me, Simon, I'm plenty enticed." It's true. My jeans are agonizingly tight at the moment. I close my eyes and breathe in and out. "And the only thing I'm thinking about is you."

He's so near that his eyes are filling my vision, the flecks of darker blue and silver in them catching the light. "That's alright then. I like the sound of that." He shifts his weight and the friction nearly makes me gasp.

I want to kiss him until the sun comes up. I want to rip this bulky jumper off him and feel his skin against mine. I want to roll my hips against his and feel the heat of him against me.

I want to stay with him and never leave.

Fuck New York.

I reach up to meet his mouth, my lips avidly finding his own, the intensity of the moment overwhelming me. I'm gripping his shoulders, his weight presses down on me, his hand slides under my shirt to caress my skin.

I want. I want so much.

But I don't want it like this.

I don't want to have this and then leave.

I can't believe I'm doing this. It's completely mental. But just as he didn't want to jeopardize this fledgling relationship by alienating my family, I don't want to risk too much tonight by moving too fast, when this is all so new for us both.

It's not like I've never done something like this before. I'm not that naïve. But I've never been with someone I've loved before. And I don't want to rush through that. It means something to me. I want it to mean something, not be the frantic fumblings of my uni years.

It's all so much more meaningful because it's _Simon_.

I regretfully drag my lips away from his. "I'm going too fast, aren't I?"

Simon's flushed, dazed as he blinks down at me. He swallows, throat rippling with the motion. "No. It's on me. I let my enthusiasm get the best of me, yeah?" He shakes his head. "That usually doesn't happen that easily for me." His eyes find mine again. "I always feel so awkward. But not with you, Baz. Somehow not with you." He looks bashful.

He goes to shift away but my arms keep him close. "It's not that I don't want to, Simon, I do."

Christ, do I ever.

I keep my arms around his waist, my fingers gently running up and down his back. "If you think I'm having regrets about leaving you now . . . I'd find it near impossible to go if we went any further tonight." I swallow and raise one eyebrow in an attempt to lessen the vulnerability my next words expose. "I . . . ah . . . I might perhaps have a tendency to be a bit clingy."

I've only had one consistent boyfriend in my life and I wasn't even that fond of Sebastian, but I am quite regrettably a bit of a_ cuddler_ after intimate encounters. My face is on fire. I may burst into flames on the spot. I've never admitted such a weakness to anyone before.

Simon doesn't look appalled or confounded by this humiliating admission of mine. He looks entirely delighted. "Clingy, you say?"

"Shut up. I never should have said anything." I would sink into the oblivion of the sofa cushions if I could.

He strokes the side of my jaw and turns my face to his again. "I like that, Baz. I like that a lot." Simon leans down to brush his lips against my ear. "I can be clingy too."

And just like that, he's done it again. He's taken me at my most exposed and emotionally compromised state and not only accepted what I've said but made me feel safe and secure in his regard.

I don't know how he does it.

Fuck. I think I said that out loud.

Simon shrugs, lips curving up as his eyes meet mine. "Dunno. I just say what comes in my head." He goes up on his elbows. "It's true though. The clingy part."

His face is the one deepening in color now, as he keeps talking. "There wasn't much contact at the homes, yeah? The matrons didn't really let themselves get attached. Nobody did. I think the only human contact I really had, once I was out of the nursery, was when I'd get into fights." His brow furrows. "I got in a fair number of them."

"I'm faintly aware." We'd had our share the first few years at Watford.

He shrugs. "Yeah. Sorry about that. It was one of the only ways I had to get my feelings out and feel connected to anything." His jaw clenches momentarily. "I got moved around a fair bit. Never at a place for more than a year or two." His brow creases. "None of them were ever _home_. The only place that ever felt like that was Watford."

I sit up a bit. This is a far more serious conversation now, and I feel like I need to have all my focus on what Simon is saying. He rarely ever talks about the care homes. I shift until my back is against the armrest and I sit up even further. Simon give me a quizzical look. I don't say anything, but I open my arms to him. He moves to follow me, sliding in at my side, back against the sofa cushions and his head on my chest. I can't see his face but I think he prefers it that way for the moment.

"Go on," I say.

He shifts a bit and then slides an arm around my waist. I bring my hand up, fingers coming to gently stroke the hair at the nape of his neck.

Simon sighs. "One of the very first things I loved about Penny was how she wasn't afraid to be near me, not even first year. She'd hug me and sit next to me, lean into me when she was cold. I'd never had that with anyone. No one had ever willingly come into contact with me, other than to bash my face in or shove me." He burrows further into my chest, the warmth of his breath seeping through my jumper. "I liked it. It made me feel cared for, yeah?"

My family is not the most demonstrative but I know exactly what he means. After my mother died Fiona would always make a point of hugging me. Every time she was with me. When she'd get to the house, when she'd leave. When she'd put me to bed. Sometimes to the point of driving me mad, but I still relished that contact.

My mother was the best at hugs. I remember that about her. Tight, all-encompassing hugs. Warm and firm and safe.

Daphne's not a big hugger but she never shied away, once she married Father, from making sure I knew I was loved. She followed Fiona's lead and even though I know it's not second nature to her, I'm grateful for the effort she made.

"I know what you mean, Simon."

"I told you the intimacy part of things felt awkward with Agatha. It did. Just didn't feel right somehow. But I loved having the physical closeness—holding hands, hugging, having her tucked under my arm when we'd watch movies. That was the best part." Simon's silent for a moment. "That was really the part I missed when we broke up. Not our conversations, or our kissing, or making out, truth be told. It was having someone to hold." He pauses again, voice lowering. "And someone holding me. That's what I missed."

My fingers sink into his hair, nails lightly dragging across his scalp.

"It's not that way with you though, Baz. Doesn't feel awkward. I feel . . . I'm not even sure I'm going to say this right, I'm never good with words." His voice is barely audible when he speaks again. "There's just something so familiar about you. It's comforting, I guess. Reassuring." Simon's fingers grip my jumper. "Watford's the only home I've ever known. The only place I felt I belonged." I have to tilt my head down to hear his next words. "In a room I shared with you."

He sighs and holds me tighter. "So I get it, Baz, I get it." He turns his head up to look at me, a shy expression on his face and his cheeks coloring again. "I might be even clingier than you."

I bring my other arm up and around his shoulders. I brush my lips to his forehead. "Watch it now, Simon. You know how competitive I get. I might just take that as a challenge."

He laughs and buries his head in my chest again. I could stay here all night, on this sofa, with Simon in my arms.

In truth I can't, because my furniture is so fucking uncomfortable. There is literally no padding on this armrest. It's digging into my back. I'm sure to have a mark. The cushions are far too rigid as well. It's like my arse is sat on a plank.

What the fuck was I thinking when I bought this ridiculous angular sofa? It's fine for watching movies with your mates but absolute rubbish for this kind of thing.

I'm going to have to rethink the whole décor.

But I can stand it, for a bit longer, because I've got Simon in my arms and I don't want to let him go.

**Simon**

We stay on the sofa for a long time, me cradled in Baz's arms, my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It's late. Past time for him to get home.

I don't want to move though. It still astounds me, how arousing I find Baz and at the same time how achingly comfortable. I'm glad he pulled us back. I wasn't thinking clearly. All I could think about was how much I wanted him, how much I needed to feel closer to him, how the thought of him being so far away was so much more painful with each passing moment.

He says he wouldn't have been able to leave. I don't know if I would have been able to let him go.

It's not like that for me, usually. The physical intimacy, I mean. Not the hand holding or kissing. I can manage that just fine. I like that.

It's the other stuff that usually freezes me up. Makes me jittery, nervous, awkward.

But not tonight. Not with Baz. With Baz it felt . . . it felt right. It felt comfortable. It felt safe.

It felt like belonging. Like coming home.

I finally sit up and run a hand through my hair. Baz is heavy-lidded, ready to fall asleep by the looks of him. "You need some tea, Baz? Before you head back?"

"Are you really making me go home?" There's a smile on his lips so I know he's teasing.

"You know I am. You promised."

"I did no such thing."

"You implied."

"Wrong again."

"Come on, you prick, you said you agreed with me."

"I did not. You just assumed. I never actually agreed to anything before you ravished me with your charms."

"I never managed to ravish you, you tosser." I'm grinning at him now. There's no one like Baz for banter like this. I never used to call it banter. I used to call it him being an arse.

"More's the pity." He's smiling now too.

We move to the kitchen and Baz puts the electric kettle on. He drinks his tea while he leans against the counter, his arm around my shoulders.

I feel like we're moving in slow motion now, every moment an attempt to drag out our time together. Tying my shoes seems to take ages. Baz keeps adjusting his coat.

We're silent as the moments tick by, making our progress out of his flat, down to his garage, finding his car. It's like a series of snapshots, the images imprinting on my brain—the way the light hits his face, the line of his coat draped over his shoulders, the feel of his fingers intertwined with mine.

**Baz**

The drive to Hampshire gives me too much time to think. Each mile that takes me away from Simon drags at me, like there's a magnet in my chest pulling me back towards him.

**Simon**

I'm just drifting off to sleep when my mobile pings.

_**Baz:**__ I'm back in Hampshire._

_**Baz:**__ I miss you already._

I miss him too. I text him just that.

**Baz**

The aeroplane door shuts with a dismal thud. This is it. I'm headed back to New York. Any romantic ideas I'd entertained about turning back are put to rest now that the doors are closed and the plane is pulling away from the gate.

Five fucking months.

It feels like a fucking lifetime.

My phone is in aeroplane mode, the last text I sent to Simon unanswered on my screen.

Five months.

It's taken me almost five years, a job thousands of miles away, a miserable drive across the entire east coast of America, and traversing the Atlantic by plane—not once, but now almost twice in the span of a week—to realize that the place I feel the most content, the most myself, the most at peace is wherever Simon is.

Five bloody months doesn't seem so insurmountable when I think of it like that.

I'll be coming home to him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Baz**

I don't know how they expect us to actually open the office in London if all we do in these planning meetings is rehash everything we discussed at the last meeting. The agenda may as well be rubbish; it's not as if we ever follow it.

I don't say much. I can't be bothered anymore. I'm tired of trying to keep people on track when most of them only want to hear the sound of their own voices.

Philippa gave me a blistering after the last meeting. She seemed to think I'd cut her off and stifled her opportunity to "voice her opinion." Bollocks. She'd nattered on for almost ten minutes about the décor, which is literally the least important issue facing us at the moment.

I'm certainly not one to shun tastefully chosen interior design, but when we haven't even finalized a transition team and we're barely three months away from said transition, I find discussions on the merits of sage and taupe versus silver and charcoal grey quite maddening.

I find everything about this vexing. I'm part of these meetings, perforce, but no one has officially named me to the actual on-site transition team. The staff composition for the London office is still a mystery.

I don't even think we're going to make the May target date.

It's even more unbearable being here in New York now. It was barely tolerable before the holiday but now, with Simon in London, it's absolutely excruciating.

I really don't know why I even bothered to come back. I should give my notice and go home. I've got contacts in the industry, references and credentials that are impeccable. I could find a job in London and Simon and I could take up where we left off. Which would make life infinitely better.

But I'm a Pitch and we don't give up, even in the direst of circumstances.

I committed to this transition and I am a man of my word.

Fuck it all.

**Simon**

I do my best not to ask Baz about work anymore. I'm curious of course, because I'm me, but I try to restrain myself. Talking about work drags on him. He looks pale and wan when we Facetime as it is.

Last time we spoke he reluctantly admitted that the London transition was a bit of mess. Didn't say much more than that, but his expression said it all. He's worried they won't make the May date.

Which means he won't be coming to London then.

I don't know what that means for him overall. I know he's talked about leaving, finding another position here, with another firm.

I'd like that. But I don't want him to do that for me. He's got to do it for himself, not for us.

So I do my best to distract him when we talk. Tell stories about work, the boys in the home. How I totally bollocksed up the art class and spilled half the paint on my shirt. The day I managed to get free tickets to a football match for the older boys. The way the little 'uns like to hear my stories of the scrapes I got into at Watford.

The grim details of how the older boys completely thrashed me when we played football on the green. I am shit at goal.

It makes Baz smile and that means the world to me.

**Baz**

It's finally set. The transition team has been named and I'm on it. The London office tentative opening date has been pushed back to late June, but the team is scheduled to be there starting in May.

I'm in charge of operations. I finally have some fucking control of this disaster. I live for this kind of thing—bringing organization to chaos. It's in my blood.

The whole thing is a fucking wreck and I'm sure to be driven mad before the end.

But there's a light at the end of the tunnel.

Two months. I'll be back in London in two months.

**Simon **

He's still pale but Baz is far more animated when we Facetime now. He's drilling the team in preparation for the move. He's in his element when he's in charge like this; his eye on all the moving parts, relieved to finally have some control.

Not that he's clear of the dark days. Plenty of those still. His coworkers all sound like berks.

I'm just glad he's going to be back here in May.

I miss him.

I know that might be a stupid thing to say, when we only had those few days together in December. I've got years of being with Baz, under less friendly circumstances mind you, but still. It was easy to let myself fall into the comfort of being in his company again.

Easier to admit some truths I'd been shoving away for far too long.

I can't say there isn't a tinge of apprehension. We've just gotten to know each other again, and I don't know whether this blaze of affection that manifested months ago will continue to burn as bright when we're together again or proximity and familiarity will quench the fire of it.

I'd like to think it won't.

I've never fallen for someone in this way before, so completely and overwhelmingly. I mean I loved Agatha but I wasn't in love with her. The idea of a happy ever after, even a bland and sedate one, was alluring for someone like me.

But settling is never in anyone's best interest.

With Baz, even if it was only a matter of days, I felt like I'd found what I'd always been missing. The last piece of the puzzle. The place I fit.

Home. That's what I mean. The idea that once you find home, that's that. You keep that person, if they let you.

I think Baz will let me keep him.

**Baz**

I toss my keys on the table, toe off my shoes and collapse on the sofa.

I'm exhausted. Knackered. Utterly spent.

It's been a fucking week. Friday couldn't come soon enough. I glance at my watch. It's almost eleven o'clock back home. Not too late to Facetime Simon.

I dial his number and wait. It takes a few rings for him to pick up but the wave of warmth that rushes through me at the sight of his face is frankly embarrassing.

Fuck, I miss him.

"Baz!" Simon's face lights up as he stares into his screen. He's holding it up close so I can see the pattern of moles and freckles on his face clearly.

"Hello, love." I drink in the sight of him. His hair is drooping over his forehead, his cheeks are flushed, and he looks ridiculously pleased to see me.

The feeling is mutual.

He pulls back a bit and frowns at the screen. "You look tired. Another shit day?"

"They're all shit days."

It's my turn to frown at my mobile. The background behind Simon looks awfully familiar, but it's not the one I was expecting to see, not the one I'm used to viewing behind him when I call.

The reason manifests itself an instant later.

"Sod off, Baz. You're fucking up our movie night." Fiona's face pops up, obscuring Simon completely.

"What the fuck is Simon doing at your flat?" No wonder it looked familiar. What the hell is going on?

Fiona raises an eyebrow and glares at me. "I just told you, you dolt. _It's movie night._ Hurry the fuck up. We're watching _Lost Boys_ and Jason Patric just came on screen. I'm not about to forgive you for making me pause that." She disappears but I can still hear her grumbling in the background.

"What the hell, Simon?"

"She rang me up a while back. We've met up at the pub a few times, for drinks and karaoke, but she wanted to do a movie night this time."

"This time? How often do you and Fiona get together?" Why do I know nothing of this? What the actual fuck.

Her face pops back up, full-on glare this time. "Baz. Kiss the screen or do whatever the fuck you do when you Facetime Snow, but for the last time, wrap it the fuck up. We've got a movie to watch here."

"Why is she glaring at me like that?" I ask Simon as he retakes his mobile from my wretched aunt.

He waggles his eyebrows at me and grins. "Oh, that's just her fond glare."

Fucking hell.

**Simon**

My mobile chimes from the table. I pull the roast all the way out of the oven and set it on the stovetop before I toss the potholders aside and focus on the screen.

_**Baz: **__May 17__th__. _

_**Simon**__: what_

_**Baz:**__ We just finalized the dates. I fly home May 17__th__._

_**Simon:**__ !_

_**Simon:**__ about bloody time they gave you an actual date_

_**Simon: **__wankers_

_**Baz: **__I convinced them to push back the opening to July 1__st__._

_**Baz:**__ I'll be damned if I'm going to spend your birthday stressed and working all hours._

_**Simon:**__ you didn't have to do that_

_**Simon:**__ but thank you_

I glance at the calendar. Less than a month away.

**Baz**

My eyes sweep around the flat one last time, just to make sure I've got everything. I've already set my luggage by the door—the same two suitcases I arrived with almost a year ago. No more, no less.

The keys go in an envelope. I'll drop it in the building manager's mailbox on my way out.

There's a ping from my mobile.

Ah. The Uber driver is waiting downstairs.

This is it. I'm finally done with this miserable chapter of my life. I'm not sure work is going to be any less miserable, just by virtue of it being in London, but I'll be in London, which is really all that matters.

I'll be near Simon again.

I can sort the rest of it later. The new office, the job, if I even want to stay employed at this firm.

I have time to figure that all out.

I look around once more. There's no nostalgia. I'm well rid of this place. But I can be grateful for one thing: if I hadn't been in New York I'd never have run into Simon. I'd never have found him again. It's all been worth it, just for that chance encounter. Every sodding minute of it.

I can't waste my time reminiscing. There's a flight to catch.

There damn well better not be any storms.


	16. Chapter 16

_with thanks to all who read and commented on this story! It's come to an end now but I so enjoyed sharing it with you! At blondie-converse sorry I couldn't reply to your comments but thanks so much for them! To MusicalsandMordred, lee. , gum wrapper, blondie-converse, mikaya02, freehugs, losemyhead, idontthinkthatwordmeans and all the guests-thank you so very much! _

* * *

**Epilogue**

I take one last look around the flat. It looks bloody good, if I say so myself.

It damn well better. I was up half the night cleaning. It's as sleek and sterile as the day I moved in. Sort of.

A few things are different.

There are flowers in a vase on the table. A bright afghan draped over the back of the new black leather sofa. A hilarious crayon portrait of me tacked up on the fridge courtesy of Nigel, age eight, one of my kids from the home. A photo of me and a group of the older boys at a Chelsea match, of all things. Baz is a Chelsea supporter (of course he is) (the posh git).

I've even made up the beds. Thought I should at least make the spare room presentable, so Baz doesn't think I'm still a complete disaster, like I was at Watford.

I think I've got his room in order too. I couldn't help it—some nights I'd go in there just to catch the lingering scent of him. I might have slept on his bed a few times. Just curled up on top of his plush comforter. When I was really missing him (which was most of the time) (it still smelled like him). I think I've got all the wrinkles out of it and his throw pillows sorted.

I lock up, pocket the key and jog to the Tube station. Baz doesn't know I'm planning on meeting him at Heathrow. He told me not to bother. As if I could stay at the flat, pacing about, waiting for him to come home.

No, he's going to get the full '_Love, Actually'_ treatment. Well, maybe I won't jump him there.

I make no promises about when we get back to the flat though.

I'm early, of course. But that just gives me the time to watch the people.

I watch couples saying goodbye, parents welcoming their children home, lonely passengers with no one to greet them but an anonymous driver with a whiteboard.

I've decided I love airports. I've not traveled much, just that trip to America to visit Penny and Agatha, but there's something about the sense of adventure, of exploring new places, that lingers in the air here.

Accompanied by the comforting relief of returning home.

And the unexpected thrill of bumping into someone familiar, a chance meeting than can literally change your life.

I'm hovering by the exit, going up on tiptoe to search for any sign of Baz. I check my mobile again. His plane switched to "_arrived"_ on the board here, but I've not gotten a text from him yet.

I hope to hell I haven't missed him. That would take the biscuit, if I'm waiting around for him here and he's somehow already headed home.

It takes me a minute to admit how unlikely that is. Of course, he can't be on his way home yet. They've not even unloaded the luggage from his flight. _Get a grip, Simon._

I'm just about to text him when my mobile chimes.

_**Baz: **__Arrived. Can't wait to see you. Not sure how long it will take me to clear Customs. I'll text when I'm en route. _

Oh. Fuck. I hadn't thought about Customs. Looks like I'm in for a wait.

I wander around the baggage claim, checking the monitors for Baz's flight number. It takes a while, but I finally spot it at carousel four. I lean up against a pillar, facing the escalator. I'm sure to catch sight of him here.

Passengers start to gather round, just a few at first and then the crowd thickens. I keep my eyes trained on the escalator but there's no sign of Baz.

Moments pass. Luggage is pulled off the carousel. People around me drift away, to exits, to the parking shuttles, to wherever the fuck they're going.

Fuck it all. Where is he?

That's when I spot the _other_ escalator, at the far end of the baggage claim.

Bloody hell.

I can't believe I've missed him.

I stalk around the carousel now, back and around to the far side. And that's when I spot him.

Baz is leaning against a pillar, slender fingers tapping at his mobile. He's got his hair tucked up in a bun, a few loose waves falling on either side of his face, and it's literally the prettiest thing I've ever seen.

I'm sprinting toward him before I even think it through. "Baz!"

His head comes up and swivels in my direction. Baz's reflexes have always been unnaturally fast—made him graceful and lethal on the pitch.

But they're not quite fast enough today. I've got a running start and I'm on him before he can even blink. I careen right into him, knocking him off balance as he yelps and clutches at his mobile, my arms tightening around his waist to steady him.

My lips meet his and the world around me fades away. Baz's scent, his touch, the way his mouth moves against mine, the taste of him.

He makes time stop.

"Hey." I'm breathless and it's not from running. Baz is warm and solid in my arms, the scent of him so familiar and welcome. My cheeks burn with the realization that I've bloody _tackled him_ in the middle of the fucking baggage claim and I bury my head in his shoulder, mumbling my words into his shirt. "Fuck, I've missed you."

There's warm breath in my hair and the sweep of his lips to my temple. The rumble of his voice, amusement tinging his words. "You are such a bloody numpty, Simon, but fucking hell I've missed you too, you gorgeous fuck."

Baz's arms tighten around me as we stand there, oblivious to the passengers that swarm around us, far too wrapped up in each other.

"I didn't think you'd meet me here."

I pull back, just enough so that I can see his face. "I knew I'd go mad if I just waited around at home."

His eyes widen at my words, setting my heart racing with the fondness I see there, familiar now but somehow still unexpected every time. Then he's avidly pressing his lips to mine, arms tightening around my waist, drawing my body flush to his, rendering me light-headed at the touch of his mouth and tongue and hands.

Baz pulls back to rest his forehead against mine. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Simon, that's the honest truth of it." He squeezes my waist. "Now help me find my blasted luggage and let's get home."

Baz flat out refuses to take the Tube. "I'll not be jostled about in a bloody carriage, Simon."

We load his suitcases into an Uber ten minutes later and I lean into him in the backseat, legs pressed against each other, his arm around my shoulders.

I'll not lie, I've been a bit apprehensive about this. Meeting in person again, I mean. I don't know why, it's been good between us all these months long distance, but I just let myself worry.

And once I started, I couldn't stop. I couldn't push the thought away, no matter how hard I tried.

That's the main reason I wanted to meet him here, at the airport, rather than at his flat. I'd have felt so awful, being there, if things had been awkward between us.

I needn't have worried.

**Baz**

I wheel my luggage into my flat and let out a sigh of relief. Fuck, it's good to be back. It's good to be _with Simon_.

I'd worked myself up into a bit of a strop, the last few days. The last few hours in particular. I'd got it in my head that things would be stilted, uncomfortable, when we met again. That I'd be overly self-conscious about how besotted I am with him.

That I'd read too much into it all.

That I'd expected too much.

That I was _too much_.

I'm not like Simon. I can't shove thoughts aside once I have them. I obsess over them, fixate on them, create scenarios in my head that make no empirical sense, but that somehow manage to contain all my insecurity and self-doubt. It makes me bitter and withdrawn. I'd been so tense I'd been ready to bite someone at the last transition staff meeting.

I struggled to keep it together on the flight. Forced myself to find the thread of rationality that lingered somewhere in my frazzled brain. I had to. I couldn't let myself be a mess when I met Simon again. Couldn't let myself fall into the patterns that had sabotaged me time and time again at Watford.

I'm not letting myself do that anymore.

I couldn't watch a movie and even my music wasn't settling me down. It wasn't until I started scrolling through my texts, scanning the months of messages exchanged between me and Simon, that I was finally able to let the logical side of my brain take some control back.

It was the sight of Simon, barreling his way across the baggage claim, that had finally and definitively shut my mental turmoil down. The grin on his face, the way his body slammed into me, the sensual slide of his lips on mine, his murmured words searing into my skin. The scent of him-soap and sweat and the faint odor of curry.

Tantalising, and oh so familiar, and _so Simon_.

Simon's a few paces away from me, shifting from foot to foot. His face is flushed and he looks almost bashful. I gaze around us, take in the massive bulk of the new sofa, the flowers, the actual scent of curry drifting from my kitchen.

My flat looks like a _home_. Lived in.

"Er, I know Fiona sent you the specs for the sofa and all, but I wasn't sure if you'd like it."

I reach out for his hand and pull him towards me. "You picked it out?"

Simon's brow creases. "I did, yeah."

I pull him closer. "Then there's no question about it. I love it." There's more I want to say but it's too much, too soon. I can't just blurt that out, no matter how true it is. Not yet.

No matter that it's been true for years.

No matter that he likely already knows.

I'm overcome by this moment. By the realization.

I never thought I'd have this. Not just Simon—I thought that was impossible, not simply improbable—but _this_. This relationship, this closeness that so far transcends physical proximity.

We've not been in physical proximity for months yet I don't think I've ever felt more connected to someone.

I may have let myself dream of this but I never permitted myself to hope for it.

To hope that if I opened up, allowed myself to just be Baz—with all my quirks and faults, peculiarities and prickliness—that I'd find someone who made me feel like I was home, no matter where I found myself in the world.

Someone like Simon.

I bury my face in his tumbled bronze curls, breathe in the familiar scent of him, feel the longed-for weight of his head on my shoulder, the protective circle of his arms around me.

He's all the home I need.


	17. To Take You Home

_Hello again!_

_About a week after I wrote the final chapter for this fic I went back to this scene (that I'd plotted out but didn't want to post because it was a bit of a spoiler for chapter 16.). But I enjoyed writing it out so much that I thought I'd add it on for fun. So now you get to see how Baz convinced SImon to move in. _

_There may possibly be one more "deleted scenes" and even an epilogue I'm working on for this. I just can't let these boys and this particular AU go._

* * *

**Baz**

I pick up Simon directly from the care home.

He's pleasantly disheveled. Shirt untucked. Bronze curls drooping over his forehead. A bright spot of paint on his cheek that I can imagine licking off.

Fuck. Where did _that_ thought come from?

Simon slides into the passenger seat and his bright grin brings a flare of heat to my chest. He's the sun and I'm crashing into him. I'm leaning towards him before I even think it through and he meets me halfway over the center console, lips sliding against my own, his breath sighing against my skin.

Fingertips trail heat against my jaw as he pulls back and that stray spot of paint folds into one of his dimples as he smiles at me. "Where are we going? You didn't say."

"Thought we'd head to your place. Let you get changed."

"Being mysterious, are we?"

I arch a brow. "Wouldn't you like to know my nefarious plans for you, Snow?"

Simon shoves my arm. "Shut up, you barmy git. It's only nefarious if you don't plan on taking me out to eat. I'm starved."

"You're always starved, Simon." I regret the words the minute they come out of my mouth. Because they're true. They always have been true, but I know the background far better now than I did at Watford.

I know why he was always so painfully thin at the start of term. Why he'd be the first in the dining hall and the last to leave. Why it took weeks for him to fill out again, to lose the gauntness that haunted him in the early days of autumn.

Fucking care homes.

The touch of his hand on my forearm brings me back to the present. "You're right, I am." His fingers squeeze through the fabric of my coat. "Stop thinking so hard, Baz." Simon pats his stomach with his other hand and laughs. "I've gained enough these past few weeks I should probably back off the snacks a bit. I'll not fit in my clothes and I can't be wearing trackies to work all the time."

I let out the breath I've been holding. It comes so effortlessly to him, setting others at ease. Setting me at ease.

We drive in silence, Simon's hand still resting lightly on my forearm. I shift gears and navigate through the busy traffic to get to his flat.

I've spent the afternoon at my place. I tidied up the spare room, made it look more like a bedroom and less like an office. The desk is clear. The bed is made. The closet has ample space and the contents of the chest of drawers have been parceled out to other locations.

There are two large, empty suitcases stashed away in the boot of my car. The backseat of the Jag should accommodate the rest of his meagre belongings.

I've not been sleeping well since we've come back. The time change is the likeliest culprit but my looming departure isn't helping matters any.

Neither is Simon's living situation.

I'd spent half the night pacing in my room, formulating this plan and rehearsing the words to convince him to agree to it. I still don't know if he will. If Simon Snow is anything, it's stubborn.

I miraculously find a parking spot near his building again. That in itself says more about the dodginess of this neighbourhood than the boarded-up buildings or piles of rubbish by the bins.

Simon's already on his way to the front door when he realizes I'm not following. I've flipped the boot open and I'm hauling out the two large cases I retrieved from storage earlier today.

"What're you doing? Moving in?" He looks amused but puzzled.

Here we go.

"Moving you out."

"What?"

"I'm moving you out of here."

"You most certainly are not."

"Can we discuss this upstairs please, Simon? Preferably while we pack?"

"You can't be serious, Baz."

I slam the boot of the car shut and extend the handles of the suitcases, bumping them along the cracked sidewalk past him. He trails after me, hands in his coat pockets and that mutinous expression I know so well on his face.

He unlocks the front door and stomps up the steps, leaving me alone to navigate the cramped staircase with the two unwieldy bags thumping and knocking along behind me.

I'm panting by the time I reach his floor, sweat rolling off my forehead. And the bags are empty at the moment, not as heavy as they'll surely be once they're filled with his belongings.

_If_ they're filled with his belongings, my brain reminds me. He's not agreed to anything yet.

I drag myself in and set the cases aside. Simon shuts the door behind me and then leans against it, arms crossed, brow creased. He looks at me expectantly. "Care to clarify this for me?"

I close my eyes. My well-thought-out midnight speeches have abandoned me. All that comes out is "I think you should stay at my place."

"Why on earth would I do that?" He looks genuinely perplexed.

"Because you can't stay here."

"I jolly well can stay here. I've lived here for six months, Baz. It's fine."

"It most certainly is not fine. I can't stand the thought of you living here, Simon." His expression darkens and I know I need to choose my words wisely. Now is not the time to use the word _'squalid'_ even if it is the most appropriate one to come to mind. I shove my hands in my pockets so he can't see me clench my fists. I need to try a different approach.

"My flat is empty. There's no one there."

"I can't stay at your flat, Baz!"

"And why not?

Simon splutters and blusters. "I just . . . I can't do that." His face flushes. "I've got a lease here. I can't afford to leave this place."

"It's not about the money."

_Error_, my brain shouts at me. _Way to fuck it up, Basilton._

Simon pushes off the wall, eyes flashing. "It most certainly is about the money." His eyes narrow. "I know this might be hard for you to understand, considering your background and all, but I've got finite resources. A limited budget. This fits my needs and I can't just go buggering off to live in Chelsea on a fucking whim, Baz_. I can't do that_." Simon's chin juts out and he looks away, his voice dropping. "I can't afford that."

"I don't expect you to have to afford it. I told you—it's sitting empty."

He's drawing himself up now, as tall and straight as he can, fists clenched at his sides. His chin juts out even more and fuck it all, I know this expression. Why is he being so bloody stubborn?

"I'm not taking charity from you, Baz. I'll not do that." That's why he's being so fucking stubborn. I predicted this, I thought this out last night and I've made a bollocks of the whole proceeding.

My shoulders slump. "Please, Simon. Just do it for me. If I have to be away, at least this way I'd know you were somewhere safe."

The fire goes out of his eyes but he's still taut and rigid in his stance.

I keep going. "You'd be doing me a favour, looking after my place."

The skeptical look is back. "Didn't you tell me Fiona takes care of your place?"

I curl my lip. "Poorly. You've met her. How good an idea do you think it is, having her be responsible?"

He shakes his head. "You're just saying that. You wouldn't have let her do it in the first place, if you didn't trust her."

He's right and it's bloody irritating.

This day is getting away from me and I never intended to spend it arguing with Simon. My plans had focused more on snogging than snark.

Desperation is creeping in. "I'll tell Bunce where you live."

He scoffs. "She already knows."

"Has she visited you here?"

Silence.

"Has she?"

"No."

"I'll send her photos of the rats and the rubbish bins, shall I?"

"You wouldn't."

I tap a finger to my lip. "To be honest a Google street view would likely suffice. She'll terrify someone into flying her over to move you out of here."

"You don't even know how to get in touch with her, Baz. Stop bluffing."

"All it would take is a call to Watford to request her contact information. The alumni department is quite accommodating."

"You bloody arsehole." His fists are tightly clenched and his face is red. I can practically feel the heat radiating off Simon from here. "Why are you doing this?"

I step across the space between us and put my hands over his fisted ones. I lower my head, just a breath between our faces now. I rub his knuckles with my thumb and then gently rest my forehead against his. "Please." It's just a whisper. "I'll never survive in New York if I know you're in this manky flat alone." My hands slide up his arms, to his shoulders, to his face, cupping his cheeks as I gaze into the intense blue of his eyes. "Please, Simon."

I can feel the tension in him, the tautness of his shoulders, his posture rigid. I don't know how to break through that. I stroke his cheekbone with my thumb and tilt my head down. "Please." I whisper that word as I bring my mouth to his, slide my lips along the chapped contours of his own, sink into the warmth of his touch, his tongue, his taste.

Simon's arms slip around me, pulling me closer, tracing their way up my back. His mouth moves on mine, his breath catching, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He pulls back a moment later to breathe words into the space between us. "Why do you have to be so fucking persuasive, you twat?"

I bury my face in his hair, breathe in the scent of him, closing my eyes so he can't see the depth of emotion in me. The glimmer of hope that he's actually going to let me do this.

But, being Simon, he can't help arguing the point. I should have known.

"I don't want to mess up your flat, Baz."

"You're not going to mess up my flat."

"You like things neat. You know I'm a disaster."

"Ah, but now you're my disaster, aren't you, Simon?" His lips find mine again and my day is finally on track, as far as the snogging is concerned.

It unfortunately can't last, as we have a flat to pack up.

Simon keeps bickering with me, even as I fold his clothes into neat piles and he sorts through the detritus on his desk and nightstand.

"You should at least let me pay you rent."

"Why would I have you pay me rent? The whole point is having a place you can afford, that's safe and sanitary."

"I do clean, you know."

I groan. "I know you do. How about we compromise on tastefully decorated and not in a dodgy neighbourhood? Is that better?"

Simon just grunts in response, but he starts placing his clothes in the empty suitcases so I know I've won this round.

"I'll call Father's solicitor Monday. It shouldn't be problem to get you out of this lease."

"I can't afford a solicitor, Baz."

"It's just Percy. He's Father's cousin. He doesn't charge for family business."

"This isn't family business!"

I glare at him. "If you're moving into my flat, to house-sit for me while I'm in America, it damn well is family business."

"You're infuriating."

"And you're exasperating, Simon, not to mention exceedingly stubborn. Now come on, we've not got all night and I seem to remember you whinging about needing to eat."

His stomach audibly rumbles at my words. I can't help but laugh.

Simon shakes his head, face flushing, but he doesn't fuss at me this time. He picks up another heap of t-shirts and tosses them into the open suitcase.

Good.

It doesn't take us long to sort his belongings. Simon really doesn't have much. There are a few rickety cast-offs from when he lived with Bunce. I offer to put the items in storage for him but he scoffs at the suggestion. The rest of the furniture came with the flat.

We trundle down the stairs, the suitcases banging and bumping along behind us. I get them loaded in the car and then we go up to fill some boxes—books and personal items, shampoos and soaps and such.

I take a last look around his bedroom. It's bare and stark, all the colourful items that made it Simon's stowed away. All that's left is a cracked mug on the nightstand and a thick candle set by it.

Simon comes in to do one last sweep of the wardrobe and chest of drawers. His finger reaches out to touch the candle. It's half burned down, not really worth the effort to bring it along, but he picks it up and gently wraps it and the stand it was sitting on in a bit of newspaper, before carefully tucking it in the last box.

Odd.

He shuts the door behind us and exhales. His eyes find mine. "You're sure about this, Baz? You're not just doing this to be kind? I mean, I know you're doing it to be kind, but . . . you know what I mean?" He's headed for a bluster again.

I raise my eyebrows and smirk. "Now when have I ever been known to show any signs of kindness, Simon? I'm desperately in need of a reliable house-sitter. No kindness to it at all. You're the one doing me a favour."

"You are such a terrible liar." Simon knocks his shoulder into mine. "You're going to let me pay for the utilities or the deal is off."

I roll my eyes. "Fine. But for the love of God, don't keep the thermostat down to save money."

"Why not? I can always just throw another jumper or hoody on, if it gets cold."

"You're truly impossible."

"You like me anyway."

"That I do, Simon. That I do."

I feel as if I'm leaving a weight behind me as we pull away from the kerb and Simon's old neighbourhood fades away in the dimming light.

"So do you want to go out to eat or should we just get kebabs from the corner shop?"

"Kebabs sound brilliant. I'm famished."

Of course he is.

Simon's hand finds mine where it sits on the gear shift. His warm fingers rest against the back of my hand and it feels like something clicks into place.

It's going to be an awful wrench leaving him behind.

I'll likely be up all night thinking of ways to let myself stay, even though I know that's wildly unrealistic. I'll be on that flight two days from now, whether I want to be or not.

And he'll be here.

Surrounded by my things. And somehow that brings me a spot of comfort.

**Simon**

I don't know why I let him convince me. I know it's not like I'll be_ living_ with him but it feels more intimate than simply house-sitting.

I can't say my heart didn't leap when he suggested it. That the thought of moving into a place imbued with Baz didn't hold a significant appeal.

That it would be the closest thing to being with him, when he was so far away.

But I don't hold with charity. I've made my own way since I was a kid. I don't need handouts from anyone, particularly not Baz.

Not because he's posh or well-off or any of that. That's part of it. But mostly because I'm strict about doing things on my own.

We're embarking on something here and I don't want that clouded with obligation or debt. Or a sense of duty.

One thing I can say about Baz—he's impossible to argue with when he has his mind set on something. We wrangled about it for long enough at my flat. And he's right. I don't really have a good reason other than I don't want to feel indebted and I don't want this to make things weird with us.

Or with his family.

He called Fiona from the bloody car, to tell her I'd be moving in and she wouldn't have to come round and check on the flat for him anymore.

He had her on speaker which was excruciating.

"_I'll not have to come around? Are you daft, Baz? Who's going to check on Snow?"_

"I don't need checking on," I whisper-hiss at Baz.

"_Shut up, Snow. I can hear you. Of course you need checking on, you absolute numpty. You'll never figure out Baz's coffee machine without me."_

"Don't drink coffee," I mutter.

"_You will once you try this machine. Does the whole frothy cappuccino thing, it does."_

Baz interrupts her. "Fiona, would you stop nattering on about the coffeemaker, for Christ's sake. I'm telling you Simon is going to be house-sitting. I'll leave your number with him, in case he needs anything or something goes balls up at the flat. But other than that, you are off the hook. Freed of responsibility for the place."

"_No loud parties or orgies, Snow. The neighbours are all stodgy old blue-hairs. Leave it to Baz to move to Chelsea and find the most geriatric and bland living establishment in the whole place." _

"Shut up, you hag. Not all of us are pretentious enough to think we're hip and trendy just by virtue of living in Notting Hill."

"_I swear I don't know how you turned out to be such a boring twat, Baz. All my effort come to naught." _ She grumbles inaudibly for a moment and then resumes. _"Call me when you get back home tonight, you besotted knob-head. Ta ta, Snow. I'll see you around. Don't run out of coffee. You never know when I'll show up. That's a warning and a promise." _

"Fiona. I swear by all that's holy . . ." Baz starts but she's already rung off. He turns to me. "Don't worry about her. She'll be traveling for work half the time or out at the clubs with her chavvy boyfriend and his mates. She won't bother you."

"You're sure?" I think Fiona may be the most daunting thing about this move into Baz's place.

"I'm sure. She barely went around when it was her job, she'll be damned unlikely to do it if she knows someone's doing the work for her. Trust me. She'll be glad to be relieved of any latent responsibility."

I hope he's right.

**Baz**

It's an odd paradox, having Simon in my flat, seeing his clothes hanging in the wardrobe, his shoes by the door, his toiletry bag on the bathroom counter. The feeling of having him around is so familiar, even if the surroundings have changed.

It may not be our old room at Watford but somehow, he fits here just the same.

* * *

_Chapter title from a song by Frank Turner. _


End file.
